I Went Out Under The Sky, Muse!

What An Old Maid I'm Getting To Be. Lacking The Courage To Be In Love With Death!

I Don't Love Women. Love Has To Be Reinvented, We Know That. The Only Thing Women Can Ultimately Imagine Is Security. Once They Get That, Love, Beauty, Everything Else Goes Out The Window. All They Have Left Is Cold Disdain; That's What Marriages Live On Nowadays. Sometimes I See Women Who Ought To Be Happy, With Whom I Could Have Found Companionship, Already Swallowed Up By Brutes With As Much Feeling As An Old Log.

There Shall Be Poets! When Woman's Unmeasured Bondage Shall Be Broken, When She Shall Live For And Through Herself, Man--hitherto Detestable--having Let Her Go, She, Too, Will Be Poet! Woman Will Find The Unknown! Will Her Ideational Worlds Be Different From Ours? She Will Come Upon Strange, Unfathomable, Repellent, Delightful Things; We Shall Take Them, We Shall Comprehend Them.

The Poet, Therefore, Is Truly The Thief Of Fire. He Is Responsible For Humanity, For Animals Even; He Will Have To Make Sure His Visions Can Be Smelled, Fondled, Listened To; If What He Brings Back From Beyond Has Form, He Gives It Form; If It Has None, He Gives It None. A Language Must Be Found…of The Soul, For The Soul And Will Include Everything: Perfumes, Sounds Colors, Thought Grappling With Thought

But, Truly, I Have Wept Too Much! The Dawns Are Heartbreaking. Every Moon Is Atrocious And Every Sun Bitter.