The Kind Of Power Mothers Have Is

His Touch Both Consoles And Devastates Me; I Feel My Heart Pulse, Then Wither, Naked As A Stone On The Roaring Mattress While The Lovely, Moony Night Slides Through The Window To Dapple The Flanks Of This Innocent Who Makes Cages To Keep The Sweet Birds In. Eat Me, Drink Me; Thirsty, Cankered, Goblin-ridden, I Go Back And Back To Him To Have His Fingers Strip The Tattered Skin Away And Clothe Me In His Dress Of Water, This Garment That Drenches Me, Its Slithering Odour, Its Capacity For Drowning.

A Fairy Tale Is The Kind Of Story In Which One King Goes To Another King To Borrow A Cup Of Sugar

He Was Prepared To Die For It, As One Of Baudelaire's Dandies Might Have Been Prepared To Kill Himself In Order To Preserve Himself In The Condition Of A Work Of Art, For He Wanted To Make This Experience A Masterpiece Of Experience Which Absolutely Transcended The Everyday. And This Would Annihilate The Effects Of The Cruel Drug, Boredom, To Which He Was Addicted Although, Perhaps, The Element Of Boredom Which Is Implicit In An Affair So Isolated From The Real World Was Its Principle Appeal For Him.

The End Of Exile Is The End Of Being.

Your Green Eye Is A Reducing Chamber. If I Look Into It Long Enough, I Wil Become As Small As My Own Reflection, I Will Diminish To A Point And Vanish. I Will Be Drawn Down Into That Black Whirlpool And Be Consumed By You. I Shall Become So Small You Can Keep Me In One Of Your Osier Cages And Mock My Loss Of Liberty.