We Are Using Our Own Skins For

Them Lady Poets Must Not Marry, Pal.

Life, Friends, Is Boring. We Must Not Say So. After All, The Sky Flashes, The Great Sea Yearns, We Ourselves Flash And Yearn, And Moreover My Mother Told Me As A Boy (repeatedly) 'ever To Confess You're Bored Means You Have No Inner Resources.' I Conclude Now I Have No Inner Resources, Because I Am Heavy Bored.

You Should Always Be Trying To Write A Poem You Are Unable To Write, A Poem You Lack The Technique, The Language, The Courage To Achieve. Otherwise You're Merely Imitating Yourself, Going Nowhere, Because That's Always Easiest.

I Cry. Evil Dissolves, & Love, Like Foam; That Love. Prattle Of Children Powers Me Home, My Heart Claps Like The Swan's Under A Frenzy Of Who Love Me & Who Shine.

Something Has Been Said For Sobriety But Very Little.