The Shell The Sea Fills My Ear

The Real Mystery Is This Strange Need. Why Can't We Just Hide It And Shut Up? Why Do We Have To Blab? Why Do Human Beings Need To Confess?

Nobody Knew The Iron Man Had Fallen. Night Passed.

The Inmost Spirit Of Poetry, In Other Words, Is At Bottom, In Every Recorded Case, The Voice Of Pain – And The Physical Body, So To Speak, Of Poetry, Is The Treatment By Which The Poet Tries To Reconcile That Pain With The World.

Where Are The Gods The Gods Hate Us The Gods Have Run Away The Gods Have Hidden In Holes The Gods Are Dead Of The Plague They Rot And Stink Too There Never Were Any Gods There’s Only Death

Nobody Wanted Your Dance, Nobody Wanted Your Strange Glitter, Your Floundering Drowning Life And Your Effort To Save Yourself, Treading Water, Dancing The Dark Turmoil, Looking For Something To Give.