The Body Of Our Saviour Shat But

When Book And Reader's Furrowed Brow Meet, It Isn't Always The Book That's Stupid.

My Face Is Muffled In My Mother's Clothing. Her Rhinestones Injure Me. See: My Feet Are Going. Fish Flee The Forefinger Of My Aunt. The Sun Streams Over The Geraniums. What Has This To Do With What I Feel, With What I Am.

If Death Itself Were To Die, Would It Have A Ghost, And Would The Ghost Of Death Visit The Dead In The Guise Of Someone Alive, If Only To Fright Them From Any Temptation To Return?

We Converse As We Live By Repeating, By Combining And Recombining A Few Elements Over And Over Again Just As Nature Does When Of Elementary Particles It Builds A World.

Some People Say Their Life Is Full Of Darkness And I Wonder Why They Don't Just Try And Switch The Lights On.