My Mouth Blooms Like A Cut.

Even Without Wars, Life Is Dangerous.

Evil Is Maybe Lying To God. Or Better, Lying To Love.

Take Your Foot Out Of The Graveyard, They Are Busy Being Dead.

My Sleeping Pill Is White. It Is A Splendid Pearl; It Floats Me Out Of Myself, My Stung Skin As Alien As A Loose Bolt Of Cloth.

I Said, The Poets Are There I Hear Them Singing And Lying Around Their Round Table And Around Me Still.