Unconfusion Submits Its Confusion To Proof; It's

Of The Crow-blue Mussel Shells, One Keeps Adjusting The Ash Heaps; Opening And Shutting Itself Like An Injured Fan.

The Enslaver Is Enslaved, The Hater, Harmed.

A Man Is A Writer If All His Words Are Strung In Definite Sentence Sounds.

... Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads In Them ... ... If You Demand On One Hand, The Raw Material Of Poetry In All Its Rawness And That Which Is On The Other Hand Genuine, Then You Are Interested In Poetry.

When We Think We Don't Like Art It Is Because It Is Artificial Art.