The constant struggle in mature life, I think, is to accept the necessity of tragedy and conflict, and not to try to escape to some falsely simple solution which does not include these more somber complexities.

You are a dream; I hope I never meet you.

A ring of gold with the sun in it? Lies. Lies and a grief.

I think my poems immediately come out of the sensuous and emotional experiences I have, but I must say I cannot sympathise with these cries from the heart that are informed by nothing except a needle or a knife, or whatever it is.

And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.

Bright beads of red are rising through the ink, Hearts-blood bubbles smearing out into the black stream

I want to kill myself, to escape from responsiblity, to crawl abjectly back into the womb.