Why Wait For Death To

The Laying Of Fish On The Embers, The Taste Of The Fish, The Feel Of The Texture Of Bread, The Round And The Half-loaf, The Grain Of A Petal, The Rain-bow And The Rain.

O Ruthless, Perilous, Imperious Hate, You Can Not Thwart The Promptings Of My Soul.

The Greeks Have Snatched Up Their Spears. They Have Pointed The Helms Of Their Ships Toward The Bulwarks Of Troy.

You Will Not See That Desire Begets Love, Until It All Flames Into One Concise And Metallic Blaze.

The Christos-image Is Most Difficult To Disentangle From Its Art-craft Junk-shop Paint-and-plaster Medieval Jumble Of Pain-worship And Death-symbol.