There Is Nothing With Which It Is

The Pure Playfulness Of Certain Wholly Whimsical Portions Of (charles) Cros’s Work Should Not Obscure The Fact That At The Center Of Some Of His Most Beautiful Poems A Revolver Is Leveled Straight At Us.

Words Have Finished Flirting. Now They Are Making Love.

There Is By My Leaning Over The Precipice Of Your Presence And Your Absence In Hopeless Fusion My Finding The Secret Of Loving You Always For The First Time

Objects Seen In Dreams Should Be Manufactured And Put On Sale.

Everything Tends To Make Us Believe That There Exists A Certain Point Of The Mind At Which Life And Death, The Real And The Imagined, Past And Future, The Communicable And The Incommunicable, High And Low, Cease To Be Perceived As Contradictions.