As a poet I would say everything should be able to come into a poem but I can't put toothbrushes in a poem. I really can't.

Dancing is the normal prelude to intercourse.

I felt the first man I slept with must be intelligent, so I could respect him.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. (I think I made you up inside my head.)

Every day one has to earn the name of 'writer' over again, with much wrestling.

A fierce brief fusion which dreamers call real, and realists, an illusion; an insight like the flight of birds.

And if you have no past or future which, after all, is all that the present is made of, why then you may as well dispose of the empty shell of present and commit suicide.