I dreamed about you baby. It was just the other night. Most of you was naked Ah, but some of you was light.

Out of the thousands who are known or who want to be known as poets, maybe one or two are genuine and the rest are fakes, hanging around the sacred precincts, trying to look like the real thing.

You are locked into your suffering and your pleasures are the seal.

Probably all cultures, certainly Western culture, always have been violent.

In My Secret Life" "I saw you this morning, you were moving so fast. Can't seem to loosen my grip On the past. And I miss you so much, there's no one in sight. And we're still making love In my secret life. I smile when I am angry, I cheat and I lie, I do what I have to do to get by, In my secret life.

All the lousy little poets coming around trying to sound like Charles Manson.

I cannot understand why my arm is not a lilac tree.