The Stallion And His Mare, Unbridled, With

(those Women Whom The Distaff No Longer Claims Nor Spun Cloth) Driven Made, Mad, Mad By Bacchus.

The Christos-image Is Most Difficult To Disentangle From Its Art-craft Junk-shop Paint-and-plaster Medieval Jumble Of Pain-worship And Death-symbol.

When The Shingles Hissed In The Rain Incendiary, Other Values Were Revealed To Us

She Did Not Look At The Daffodils. They Didn't Mean Anything. She Looked At The Daffodils. She Said, 'thank You For The Daffodils.

O Ruthless, Perilous, Imperious Hate, You Can Not Thwart The Promptings Of My Soul.