I Am Not Yet Born;

There Seeps From Heavily Jowled Or Hawk-like Foreign Faces The Guttural Sorrow Of The Refugees.

World Is Crazier And More Of It Than We Think, Incorrigibly Plural. I Peel And Portion A Tangerine And Spit The Pips And Feel The Drunkenness Of Things Being Various.

Time Was Away And Somewhere Else, There Were Two Glasses And Two Chairs And Two People With One Pulse.

None Of Our Hearts Are Pure, We Always Have Mixed Motives. Are Self Deceivers, But The Worst Of All Deceits Is To Murmur 'lord, I Am Not Worthy' And, Lying Easy, Turn Your Face To The Wall.

You Know The Worst: Your Wills Are Fickle, Your Values Blurred, Your Hearts Impure And Your Past Life A Ruined Church-- But Let Your Poison Be Your Cure.