Poetry Is A Language Pared Down To

The Artist Is Always Beginning.

The Man Who Fears War And Squats Opposing My Words For Stour, Hath No Blood Of Crimson But Is Fit Only To Rot In Womanish Peace

It Is More Than Likely That The Brain Itself Is, In Origin And Development, Only A Sort Of Great Clot Of Genital Fluid Held In Suspense Or Reserved. This Hypothesis Would Explain The Enormous Content Of The Brain As A Maker Or Presenter Of Images.

And In The Mean Time My Songs Will Travel, And The Devirginated Young Ladies Will Enjoy Them When They Have Got Over The Strangeness

Usura Slayeth The Child In The Womb It Stayeth The Young Man's Courting It Hath Brought Palsey To Bed, Lyeth Between The Young Bride And Her Bridegroom