The moon is nothing But a circumambulating aphrodisiac Divinely subsidized to provoke the world Into a rising birth-rate
The skirts of the gods Drag in our mud. We feel the touch And take it to be a kiss.
In our plain defects we already know the brotherhood of man.
One day I shall burst my bud of calm and blossom into hysteria.
It's always our touches of vanity that manage to betray us.
Where in this small-talking world can I find A longitude with no platitude?