Sometimes Nothing Is So Solid To Me

Pity The Planet, All Joy Gone From This Sweet Volcanic Cone; Peace To Our Children When They Fall In Small War On The Heel Of Small War--until The End Of Time To Police The Earth, A Ghost Orbiting Forever Lost In Our Monotonous Sublime

If Youth Is A Defect, It Is One We Outgrow Too Soon.

We Are All Old-timers, Each Of Us Holds A Locked Razor.

I Myself Am Hell; Nobody's Here

I Was Overcome With An Attack Of Pathological Enthusiasm.