Most Things May Never Happen: This One

What Are Days For? Days Are Where We Live.

There Is Bad In All Good Authors: What A Pity The Converse Isn't True!

Sex Means Nothing--just The Moment Of Ecstasy, That Flares And Dies In Minutes.

Heads In The Women's Ward On Pillow After Pillow Lies The Wild White Hair And Staring Eyes; Jaws Stand Open; Necks Are Stretched With Every Tendon Sharply Sketched; A Bearded Mouth Talks Silently To Someone No One Else Can See. Sixty Years Ago They Smiled At Lover, Husband, First-born Child. Smiles Are For Youth. For Old Age Come Death's Terror And Delirium.

One Of The Great Criticisms Of Poets Of The Past Is That They Said One Thing And Did Another.