If the body is a temple, then tattoos are its stained glass windows.

I am flushed and warm. I think I may be enormous, I am so stupidly happy, My wellingtons Squelching and squelching through the beautiful red.

I felt the mask crumple, the great poisonous store of corrosive ashes begin to spew out of my mouth.

A black-sharded lady keeps me in a parrot cage.

I, love, I am the pure acetylene virgin attended by roses.

The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.

I want to write because I have the urge to excel in one medium of translation and expression of life. I can't be satisfied with the colossal job of merely living. Oh, no, I must order life in sonnets and sestinas and provide a verbal reflector for my 60-watt lighted head.