Love: A Burnt Match Skating In A

One Must Be Drenched In Words, Literally Soaked In Them.

Love: A Burnt Match Skating In A Urinal.

The Form Of My Poem Rises Out Of A Past That So Overwhelms The Present With Its Worth And Vision That I'm At A Loss To Explain My Delusion That There Exist Any Real Links Between That Past And A Future Worthy Of It.

And So It Was I Entered The Broken World To Trace The Visionary Company Of Love, Its Voice An Instant In The Wind (i Know Not Whither Hurled) But Not For Long To Hold Each Desperate Choice.

I Cannot Figure Out Just What Dadaism Is Beyond An Insane Jumble Of The Four Winds, The Six Senses, And Plum Pudding. But If The Baroness Is To Be A Keystone For It, — Then I Think I Can Possibly Know When It Is Coming And Avoid It.