Aloneness and selfness are too important to betray for company.

This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary. The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.

I am accused. I dream of massacres. I am a garden of black and red agonies. I drink them, Hating myself, hating and fearing. And now the world conceives Its end and runs toward it, arms held out in love.

I’ll never speak to God again.

Let's face it: I'm scared, scared and frozen. First, I guess, I'm afraid for myself...the old primitive urge for survival. It's getting so I live every moment with terrible intensity.

Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline. You've got to go so far, so fast, in such a small space, that you've got to burn away all the peripherals.

Stars open among the lilies. Are you not blinded by such expressionless sirens? This is the silence of astounded souls.