Poetry Is A Language Pared Down To

I Should Consent To Breed Under Pressure, If I Were Convinced In Any Way Of The Reasonableness Of Reproducing The Species. But My Nerves And The Nerves Of Any Woman I Could Live With Three Months, Would Produce Only A Victim... Lacking In Impulse, A Mere Bundle Of Discriminations. If I Were Wealthy I Might Subsidize A Stud Of Young Peasants, Or A Tribal Group In Tahiti.

A Little Light, Like A Rushlight / To Lead Back To Splendour.

The Rustling Of The Silk Is Discontinued, Dust Drifts Over The Courtyard, There Is Not Sound Of Footfall, And The Leaves Scurry Into Heaps And Lie Still, And She The Rejoicer Of The Heart Is Beneath Them: A Wet Leaf That Clings To The Threshold.

It Is More Than Likely That The Brain Itself Is, In Origin And Development, Only A Sort Of Great Clot Of Genital Fluid Held In Suspense Or Reserved. This Hypothesis Would Explain The Enormous Content Of The Brain As A Maker Or Presenter Of Images.

The Real Trouble With War (modern War) Is That It Gives No One A Chance To Kill The Right People.