i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses

a salesman is an it that stinks to please but whether to please itself or someone else makes no more difference than if it sells hate condoms education snakeoil vac uumcleaners terror strawberries democ ra(caveat emptor)cy superfluous hair

So far as I am concerned, poetry and every other art was, is, and forever will be strictly and distinctly a question of individuality.

You are my sun, my moon, and all my stars.

If 180 million people want to be undead, that’s their funeral, but I happen to like being alive.

may came home with a smooth round stone as small as a world and as large as alone.

The artist is not a man who describes, but a man who feels.