We Must Discover Security Within Ourselves.

Our Evenings Are Farewells. Our Parties Are Testaments. So That The Secret Stream Of Suffering. May Warm The Cold Of Life.

Poetry Is A Rich, Full-bodied Whistle, Cracked Ice Crunching In Pails, The Night That Numbs The Leaf, The Duel Of Two Nightingales, The Sweet Pea That Has Run Wild, Creation's Tears In Shoulder Blades.

It Is No Longer Possible For Lyric Poetry To Express The Immensity Of Our Experience. Life Has Grown Too Cumbersome, Too Complicated. We Have Acquired Values Which Are Best Expressed In Prose.

During The Last Years Of Mayakovski's Life, When All Poetry Had Ceased To Exist . . . Literature Had Stopped.

That's Metaphysics, My Dear Fellow. It's Forbidden Me By My Doctor, My Stomach Won't Take It.