Perhaps, Perhaps This Would Be The One

I Don’t Care About Anyone, And The Feeling Is Quite Obviously Mutual.

The Blood Jet Is Poetry And There Is No Stopping It.

I Am Accused. I Dream Of Massacres. I Am A Garden Of Black And Red Agonies. I Drink Them, Hating Myself, Hating And Fearing. And Now The World Conceives Its End And Runs Toward It, Arms Held Out In Love.

I Lean To You, Numb As A Fossil. Tell Me I'm Here.

So Much Working, Reading, Thinking, Living To Do! A Lifetime Is Not Long Enough.