The Sun Gives You Ulcers, The Wind

Some Things Are Hard To Write About. After Something Happens To You, You Go To Write It Down, And Either You Over Dramatize It, Or Underplay It, Exaggerate The Wrong Parts Or Ignore The Important Ones. At Any Rate, You Never Write It Quite The Way You Want To.

Every Woman Adores A Fascist, The Boot In The Face, The Brute Brute Heart Of A Brute Like You.

Now I Am Silent, Hate Up To My Neck, Thick, Thick. I Do Not Speak.

I Want To Kill Myself, To Escape From Responsiblity, To Crawl Abjectly Back Into The Womb.

Before I Give My Body, I Must Give My Thoughts, My Mind, My Dreams.