Let my lusts be my ruin, then, since all else is a fake and a mockery.

I cannot figure out just what Dadaism is beyond an insane jumble of the four winds, the six senses, and plum pudding. But if the Baroness is to be a keystone for it, — then I think I can possibly know when it is coming and avoid it.

I can remember much forgetfulness.

The form of my poem rises out of a past that so overwhelms the present with its worth and vision that I'm at a loss to explain my delusion that there exist any real links between that past and a future worthy of it.

The fact that The Bridge contains folk lore and other material suitable to the epic form need not therefore prove its failure as a long lyric poem, with interrelated sections.

Love: a burnt match skating in a urinal.

Permit me voyage, love, into your hands.