There Is A Kind Of Poetry, Bad

I Went To The Top Of Vesuvius And Looked In.

Fashion Is Fickle, And I Was Published Because I Was Fashionable. Because I Was Gay.

The Head Has Its Confines. The Head’s Got Those All Right, And The Heart. The Heart Has Its Reasons.

Oh. To Be Filled With Goodness Then Shattered By Goodness, So Beautifully Mosaically Fragmented By Such Shocking Goodness.

Books Mean All Possibilities. They Mean Moving Out Of Yourself, Losing Yourself, Dying Of Thirst And Living To Your Full. They Mean Everything.