Oh What A Poet I Will Flay

I Want To Be Important. By Being Different. And These Girls Are All The Same.

There Is Nothing Like Puking With Somebody To Make You Into Old Friends.

Some Pale, Hueless Flicker Of Sensitivity Is In Me. God, Must I Lose It In Cooking Scrambled Eggs For A Man.

The Door Of The Novel, Like The Door Of The Poem, Also Shuts. But Not So Fast, Nor With Such Manic, Unanswerable Finality.

If I Was Going To Fall, I Would Hang On To My Small Comforts, At Least, For As Long As I Possibly Could.