You Love Life Because Life's All There

Yes, Eden Was Beautiful- And If I Had To Squeeze Through Corporeal Keyholes To Crash It- So Be It. (hasn’t It Bothered You, This Part Of The Story, My Being There, I Mean? What Was I Doing There? ‘presume Not The Ways Of God To Scan,’ You’ve Been Told In Umpteen Variations, ‘the Proper Study Of Mankind Is Man.’ Maybe So, But What, Excuse Me, Was The Devil Doing In Eden?) I Took The Forms Of Animals. I Found I Could. (that’s Generally My Reason For Doing Something, By The Way, Because I Find I Can.)

Life, Like The Boring Drunk At The Office Party, Keeps Seeking You Out, Leaning On You, Killing You With Pointless Yarns And Laughing Bad-breathed In Your Face At Its Own Unfunny Jokes.

Poets Suffer Occasional Delusions Of Angelhood And Find Themselves Condemned To Express It In The Bric-a-brac Tongues Of The Human World. Lots Of Them Go Mad.

You Love Life Because Life's All There Is.

The First Horror Is There's Horror. The Second Is You Accommodate It.