Poetry is a language in which man explores his own amazement.

Where in this small-talking world can I find A longitude with no platitude?

It is the individual man in his individual freedom who can mature with his warm spirit the unripe world.

How can we be scrupulous In a life which, from birth onwards, is so determined To wring us dry of any serenity at all?

The moon is nothing But a circumambulating aphrodisiac Divinely subsidized to provoke the world Into a rising birth-rate

Coffee in England is just toasted milk.

The skirts of the gods Drag in our mud. We feel the touch And take it to be a kiss.