Poetry Is What Happens When

The Memory Of Man Is As Old As Misfortune

Now Stiff On A Pillar With A Phallic Air Nelson Stylites In Trafalgar Square Reminds The British What Once They Were.

Old Age Is An Insult. It's Like Being Smacked.

I Had Become, With The Approach Of Night, Once More Aware Of Loneliness And Time - Those Two Companions Without Whom No Journey Can Yield Us Anything.

I Have Been Thinking About The Girl I Met Last Night In The Mirror: Dark On The Marble-ivory White: Glossy Black Hair: Deep Suspiring Eyes In Which One's Glances Sink Because They Are Nervous, Curious, Turned To Sexual Curiosity.