The Sky Leans On Me, Me, The

I Want To Live And Feel All The Shades, Tones And Variations Of Mental And Physical Experience Possible In Life.

When They Asked Some Old Roman Philosopher Or Other How He Wanted To Die, He Said He Would Open His Veins In A Warm Bath. I Thought It Would Be Easy, Lying In The Tup And Seeing The Redness Flower From My Wrists, Flush After Flush Through The Clear Water, Till I Sank Into Sleep Under A Surface Gaudy As Poppies.

Over Coffee And Orange Juice The Embryonic Suicide Brightens Visibly.

The Moon, Also, Is Merciless: She Would Drag Me Cruelly, Being Barren. Her Radiance Scathes Me. Or Perhaps I Have Caught Her.

Mother Of Otherness, Eat Me.