You Feel On Your Lips A Kiss

It Is Wrong To Say: I Think. One Ought To Say: I Am Thought. I Is Someone Else.

...you Have To Pass An Exam, And The Jobs That You Get Are Either To Shine Shoes, Or To Herd Cows, Or To Tend Pigs. Thank God, I Don't Want Any Of That! Damn It! And Besides That They Smack You For A Reward; They Call You An Animal And It's Not True, A Little Kid, Etc.. Oh! Damn Damn Damn Damn Damn!

Your Memory And Your Senses Will Be Nourishment For Your Creativity.

Love...no Such Thing. Whatever It Is That Binds Families And Married Couples Together, That's Not Love. That's Stupidity Or Selfishness Or Fear. Love Doesn't Exist. Self Interest Exists, Attachment Based On Personal Gain Exists, Complacency Exists. But Not Love. Love Has To Be Reinvented, That’s Certain.

The Poet Makes Himself A Voyant Through A Long, Immense Reasoned Deranging Of All His Senses. All The Forms Of Love, Of Suffering, Of Madness; He Tries To Find Himself, He Exhausts In Himself All The Poisons, To Keep Only Their Quintessences.