What’s Any Artist, But The Dregs Of

It Is The Bliss Of Childhood That We Are Being Warped Most When We Know It The Least.

Why Do You Treat Me As They Do, As Though I Were Exactly What I Want To Be. Why Do We Treat People That Way?

Say A Word, Say A Thousand To Me On The Telephone And I Shall Choose The Wrong One To Cling To As Though You Had Said It After Long Deliberation When Only I Provoked It From You, I Will Cling To It From Among A Thousand, To Be Provoked And Hurl It Back With Something I Mean No More Than You Meant That, Something For You To Cling To And Retreat Clinging To.

Tragedy Was Foresworn, In Ritual Denial Of The Ripe Knowledge That We Are Drawing Away From One Another, That We Share Only One Thing, Share The Fear Of Belonging To Another, Or To Others, Or To God; Love Or Money, Tender Equated In Advertising And The World, Where Only Money Is Currency, And Under Dead Trees And Brittle Ornaments Prehensile Hands Exchange Forgeries Of What The Heart Dare Not Surrender.

There Is Nothing More Distressing Or Tiresome Than A Writer Standing In Front Of An Audience And Reading His Work.