I think that what happens in my poetic work in the future will depend on my being knocked in the face, and thrown flat, and given cancer, and all kinds of other things short of senile dementia.

Literature bores me, especially great literature

We have reason to be afraid. This is a terrible place.

These Songs are not meant to be understood, you understand. They are only meant to terrify & comfort.

I cry. Evil dissolves, & love, like foam; that love. Prattle of children powers me home, my heart claps like the swan's under a frenzy of who love me & who shine.

Two daiquiris withdrew into a corner of a gorgeous room and one told the other a lie.

I can offer you only: this world like a knife