The crowd is the gathering place of the weakest; true creation is a solitary act.

i am with the roots of flowers entwined, entombed sending up my passionate blossoms as a flight of rockets and argument; wine churls my throat, above me feet walk upon my brain, monkies fall from the sky clutching photographs of the planets, but i seek only music and the leisure of my pain

well, death says, as he walks by, I'm going to get you anyhow no matter what you've been: writer, cab-driver, pimp, butcher, sky-diver, I'm going to get you

I was a bore and didn't know when to smile or fake it. Or rather worse, I did but didn't.

I can see where creation often stops while the body still lives and often does not care to. the death of life before life dies.

We waste days like mad blackbirds and pray for alcoholic nightsour silk-sick human smiles wrap around us like somebody else's confetti

since some people had told me that I was ugly, I always preferred shade to the sun, darkness to light