The Death Of God Left The Angels

Art Is Not Difficult Because It Wishes To Be Difficult, Rather Because It Wishes To Be Art. However Much The Writer Might Long To Be Straightforward, These Virtues Are No Longer Available To Him. He Discovers That In Being Simple, Honest, Straightforward, Nothing Much Happens.

He Is Mad About Being Small When You Were Big, But No, That's Not It, He Is Mad About Being Helpless When You Were Powerful, But No, Not That Either, He Is Mad About Being Contingent When You Were Necessary, Not Quite It... He Is Insane Because When He Loved You, You Didn't Notice.

--why Are We Fighting Them? --they're Mad. We're Sane. --how Do We Know? --that We're Sane? --yes. --am I Sane? --to All Appearances. --and You, Do You Consider Yourself Sane? --i Do. --well, There You Have It. --but Don't They Also Consider Themselves Sane? --i Think They Know. Deep Down. That They're Not Sane. --how Must That Make Them Feel? --terrible, I Should Think. They Must Fight Ever More Fiercely, In Order To Deny What They Know To Be True. That They Are Not Sane.

Now It Is Necessary To Court Her, And Win Her, And Put On This Clean Dressing Gown, And Cut My Various Nails, And Drink Something That Will Kill The Millions Of Germs In My Mouth, And Say Something Flattering, And Be Witty And Bonny, And Hale And Kinky, All Just To Ease This Wrinkle In The Groin. It Seems A High Price.

Naked Girls With The Heads Of Marx And Malraux Prone And Helpless In The Glare Of The Headlights, Tried To Give Them A Little Joie De Vivre But Maybe It Didn't Take, Their Constant Bickering And Smallness, It's Like A Stroke Of Lightning, The World Reminds You Of Its Power, Tracheotomies Right And Left, I Am Spinning, My Pretty Child, Don't Scratch, Pick Up Your Feet, The Long Nights, Spent Most Of My Time Listening, This Is A Test Of The System, This Is Only A Test.