With This Pen I Take In Hand

I Rot On The Wall, My Own Dorian Gray.

Our Checks Are Pale. Our Wallets Are Invalids. Past Due, Past Due, Is What Our Bills Are Saying And Yet We Kiss In Every Corner, Scuffing The Dust And The Cat. Love Rises Like Bread As We Go Bust.

My Ideas Are A Curse. They Spring From A Radical Discontent With The Awful Order Of Things. I Play Clown. I Play Carpenter. I Play Nurse. I Play Witch.

There Is An Animal Inside Me, Clutching Fast To My Heart, A Huge Crab.

The Place I Live In Is A Kind Of Maze And I Keep Seeking The Exit Or The Home.