Beached under the spumy blooms, we lie Sea-sick and fever-dry.
I do not love; I do not love anybody except myself. That is a rather shocking thing to admit.
I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks.
I feel occasionally my skull will crack, fatigue is continuous - I only go from less exhausted to more exhausted & back again.
Oh what a poet I will flay myself into.
Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline, you've got to go so far, so fast, in such a small space that you've just got to turn away all the peripherals.