I Remember The Stink Of The Liverwurst.

But Even In A Telephone Booth Evil Can Seep Out Of The Receiver And We Must Cover It With A Mattress, And Then Tear It From Its Roots And Bury It, Bury It.

I Am Younger Each Year At The First Snow.

Poetry Is My Life, My Postmark, My Hands, My Kitchen, My Face.

Thumbs Grow Into My Throat. I Wear Slaps Like A Spot Of Rouge.

I Have Forgiven All The Old Actors For Dying. A New One Comes On With The Same Lines, Like Large White Growths, In His Mouth. The Dancers Come On From The Wings, Perfectly Mated.