Out of the ash I rise with my red hair and I eat men like air.

I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks or a champion college footballer suddenly confronted by Wall Street and a business suit, his days of glory shrunk to a little gold cup on his mantel with a date engraved on it like the date on a tombstone.

It is best to meet in a cul-de-sac, A palace of velvet With windows of mirrors. There one is safe, There are no family photographs, No rings through the nose, no cries.

Your room is not your prison. You are.

Doreen had intuition. Everything she said was like a secret voice speaking straight out of my own bones.

And I, stepping from this skin Of old bandages, boredoms, old faces Step to you from the black car of Lethe, Pure as a baby.

People or stars Regard me sadly, I disappoint them.