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.

They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

The one man in the room who was as big as his poems, huge, with hulk and dynamic chunks of words.

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

I am afraid. I am not solid, but hollow. I feel behind my eyes a numb, paralyzed cavern, a pit of hell, a mimicking nothingness.

If they substituted the word 'Lust' for 'Love' in the popular songs it would come nearer the truth.

A little thing, like children putting flowers in my hair, can fill up the widening cracks in my self-assurance like soothing lanolin.