The Snow Has Quietness In It; No

Fee-fi-fo-fum - Now I'm Borrowed. Now I'm Numb.

She Suffers According To The Digits Of My Hate. I Hear The Filaments Of Alabaster. I Would Lie Down With Them And Lift My Madness Off Like A Wig. I Would Lie Outside In A Room Of Wool And Let The Snow Cover Me. Paris White Or Flake White Or Argentine, All In The Washbasin Of My Mouth, Calling “oh.” I Am Empty. I Am Witless. Death Is Here. There Is No Other Settlement.

The Beautiful Feeling After Writing A Poem Is On The Whole Better Even Than After Sex, And That's Saying A Lot.

The Joy That Isn't Shared Dies Young.

What's Missing Is The Eyeballs In Each Of Us, But It Doesn't Matter Because You've Got The Bucks, The Bucks, The Bucks.