The Lord Survives The Rainbow Of His

In The End, There Is No End.

Wallowing In This Bloody Sty, I Cast For Fish That Pleased My Eye

I'm Sure That Writing Isn't A Craft, That Is, Something For Which You Learn The Skills And Go On Turning Out. It Must Come From Some Deep Impulse, Deep Inspiration. That Can't Be Taught, It Can't Be What You Use In Teaching.

Everywhere, Giant Finned Cars Nose Forward Like Fish; A Savage Servility Slides By On Grease.

Pity The Planet, All Joy Gone From This Sweet Volcanic Cone