What's Wrong With Assholes, Baby?

I Am With The Roots Of Flowers Entwined, Entombed Sending Up My Passionate Blossoms As A Flight Of Rockets And Argument; Wine Churls My Throat, Above Me Feet Walk Upon My Brain, Monkies Fall From The Sky Clutching Photographs Of The Planets, But I Seek Only Music And The Leisure Of My Pain

Sweet Christ, You Must Know That A Man Will Go Further For Any Poem Than For Any Woman Ever Born.

An Early Taste Of Death Is Not Necessarily A Bad Thing.

The Park Grass Looked Greener, The Park Benches Looked Better And The Flowers Were Trying Harder.

It Is All Ash And Dry Leaves And Grief Gone Like An Ocean Liner.