The Personal, If It Is

I'm Awaiting A Lover. I Have To Be Rent And Pulled Apart And Live According To The Demons And The Imagination In Me. I'm Restless. Things Are Calling Me Away. My Hair Is Being Pulled By The Stars Again.

I Postpone Death By Living, By Suffering, By Error, By Risking, By Giving, By Losing.

Eroticism Is One Of The Basic Means Of Self-knowledge, As Indispensable As Poetry.

Descendants Of Pigeons Once Fed By Keats, Byron, George Sand, Chopin And Many Other Famous Lovers Are Still Being Fed, And The Sudden Sound When They All Rise Together, Frightened Away, Is Like The Sound Of Giant Sails Flapping.

We Did Not Touch Each Other. We Were Both Leaning Over The Abyss.