The Poet Is A Liar Who Always

The Joy Of The Young Is To Disobey

The Louvre Is A Morgue; You Go There To Identify Your Friends.

Every Poem Is A Coat Of Arms. It Must Be Deciphered. How Much Blood, How Many Tears In Exchange For These Axes, These Muzzles, These Unicorns, These Torches, These Towers, These Martlets, These Seedlings Of Stars And These Fields Of Blue!

May The Devil Himself Splatter You With Dung.

Childhood Knows What It Wants - To Leave Childhood Behind.