Who can live with this Consciousness and not wake frightened at sunrise?

I am learning by the week, but my poesy is still not my own. New rhyme, new me me me in words. I am not all this carven rhetoric.

I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.

Now I have enough money to travel wherever I want, but I haven't got the health.

We love to be hurt and we love to have our unhealing wounds opened and reopened again: we sit staring in the mirror of art, fascinated by our own deformities.

Well, while I'm here I'll do the work — and what's the work? To ease the pain of living. Everything else, drunken dumbshow.

Others can measure their visions by what we see.