Writers, You Know, Are The Beggars Of

Eroticism Is First And Foremost A Thirst For Otherness. And The Supernatural Is The Supreme Otherness. This Is Perhaps The Most Noble Aim Of Poetry, To Attach Ourselves To The World Around Us, To Turn Desire Into Love, To Embrace, Finally What Always Evades Us, What Is Beyond, But What Is Always There – The Unspoken, The Spirit, The Soul.

Enormous And Solid But Swaying, Beaten By The Wind But Chained, Murmur Of A Million Leaves Against My Window. Riot Of Trees, Surge Of Dark Green Sounds. The Grove, Suddenly Still, Is A Web Of Fronds And Branches.

The Supreme Value Is Not The Future But The Present. The Future Is A Deceitful Time That Always Says To Us, 'not Yet,' And Thus Denies Us... Whoever Builds A House For Future Happiness Builds A Prison For The Present.

Poet: Gardener Of Epitaphs.

Watching I Watch Myself, What I See Is My Creation As Though Entering Through My Eyes Perception Is Conception Into An Eye More Crystal Clear Water Of Thoughts, What I Watch Watches Me, I Am The Creation Of What I See