Deprivation Is The Mother Of Poetry.

I Alwaysthought Of Myself As A Competent, Minor Poet. I Know Who I'm Up Against.

..you Wanted To Be The Superman Who Was Never Clark Kent

My Page Was Too White My Ink Was Too Thin The Day Wouldn't Write What The Night Pencilled In.

Out Of The Thousands Who Are Known Or Who Want To Be Known As Poets, Maybe One Or Two Are Genuine And The Rest Are Fakes, Hanging Around The Sacred Precincts, Trying To Look Like The Real Thing.

It Was A Dance Of Masks And Every Mask Was Perfect Because Every Mask Was A Real Face And Every Face Was A Real Mask So There Was No Mask And There Was No Face For There Was But One Dance In Which There Was But One Mask But One True Face Which Was The Same And Which Was A Thing Without A Name Which Changed And Changed Into Itself Over And Over.