The simplest act of surrealism is to walk out into the street, gun in hand, and shoot at random.
Words make love with one another.
Past and future monopolize the poet’s sensory and intellectual faculties, detached from the immediate spectacle. These two philtres become utterly clear the moment one stops being hypnotized by the cloudy precipitate constituted by the world of today.
I am the soul in limbo.
A work of art has value only if tremors of the future run through it.
There are fairy stories to be written for adults. Stories that are still in a green state.