Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you.

Do we always grind through the present, doomed to throw a gold haze of fond retrospect over the past?

How many different deaths I can die?

She stared at her reflection in the glossed shop windows as if to make sure, moment by moment, that she continued to exist.

But when I took up my pen, my hand made big, jerky letters like those of a child, and the lines sloped down the page from left to right horizontally, as if they were loops of string lying on the paper, and someone had come along and blown them askew.

I talk to God but the sky is empty.

There is a charge For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart - It really goes. And there is a charge, a very large charge, For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.