Hold back the edges of your gowns, Ladies, we are going through hell. |
I am lonely, lonely.
I was born to be lonely, I am best so! |
I am lonely, lonely. I was born to be lonely, I am best so! |
I cannot say that I have gone to hell for your love but often found myself there in your pursuit |
I feel the caress of my own fingers on my own neck as I place my collar and think pityingly of the kind women I have known. |
I have discovered that most of the beauties of travel are due to the strange hours we keep to see them. . . . |
I have had my dream -- like others -- and it has come to nothing, so that I remain now carelessly with feet planted on the ground and look up at the sky. |
I think all writing is a disease. You can't stop it. |
I wanted to write a poem that you would understand. For what good is it to me if you can't understand it? |
I will teach you my townspeople
how to perform a funeral for you have it over a troop of artists-- unless one should scour the world-- you have the ground sense necessary. |
If they give you lined paper, write the other way. |
If you can bring nothing to this place but your carcass, keep out. |
In summer, the song sings itself. |
In the imagination, we are from henceforth (so long as you read) locked in a fraternal embrace, the classic caress of author and reader. |
It is almost impossible to state what one in fact believes, because it is almost impossible to hold a belief and to define it at the same time. |