The Religion Of Christianity Is

Truth Is Far And Flat, And Fancy Is Fiery; And Truth Is Cold, And People Feel The Cold, And They May Wrap Themselves Against It In Fancies That Are Fiery, But They Should Not Call Them Facts; And, Generally, Poets Do Not; They Are Shrewd, They Feel The Cold, Too, But They Know A Hawk From A Handsaw, A Fact From A Fancy, As None Knows Better.

I Like Food, I Like Stripping Vegetables Of Their Skins, I Like To Have A Slim Young Parsnip Under My Knife.

Oh Lion In A Peculiar Guise, Sharp Roman Road To Paradise, Come Eat Me Up, I'll Pay Thy Toll With All My Flesh, And Keep My Soul.

Fourteen-year-old, Why Must You Giggle And Dote, Fourteen-year-old, Why Are You Such A Goat? I'm Fourteen Years Old, That Is The Reason, I Giggle And Dote In Season.

But One Wants The Idea Of Death, You Know, As Something Large And Unknowable, Something That Allows A Person To Stretch Himself Out. Especially One Wants It If One Is Tired. Or Perhaps What One Wants Is Simply A Release From Sensation, From All Consciousness For Ever.