What if a dawn of a doom of a dream bites this universe in two, peels forever out of his grave, and sprinkles nowhere with me and you?
in a middle of a room stands a suicide sniffing a Paper rose smiling to a self "somewhere it is Spring and sometimes people are in real:imagine somewhere real flowers,but I can't imagine real flowers for if I could,they would somehow not Be real" (so he smiles smiling)"but I will not everywhere be real to you in a moment" The is blond with small hands "& everything is easier than I had guessed everything would be;even remembering the way who looked at whom first,anyhow dancing
Miracles are to come. With you I leave a remembrance of miracles: they are by somebody who can love and who shall be continually reborn, a human being.
All in green went my love of riding on a great horse of gold into the silver dawn.
who knows if the moon's a balloon,coming out of a keen city in the sky--filled with pretty people? ( and if you and I should get into it,if they should take me and take you into their balloon, why then we'd go up higher with all the pretty people than houses and steeples and clouds: go sailing away and away sailing into a keen city which nobody's ever visited,where always it's Spring)and everyone's in love and flowers pick themselves
When god decided to invent everything he took one reath bigger than a circustent and everything began
Unlove's the heavenless hell and the homeless home.
Writingis an art; and artistsare human beings. As a human being stands, so a human being is
someones married their everyones laughed their cryings and did their dance (sleep wake hope and then) they said their nevers they slept their dream
The mind is its own beautiful prisoner. Mind looked long at the sticky moon opening in dusk her new wings then decently hanged himself,one afternoon. The last thing he saw was you naked amid unnaked things.
The whole truth... sings only - and all lovers are the song.
a salesman is an it that stinks to please but whether to please itself or someone else makes no more difference than if it sells hate condoms education snakeoil vac uumcleaners terror strawberries democ ra(caveat emptor)cy superfluous hair
love being such, or such, the normal corners of your heart will never guess how much my wonderful jealousy is dark
if there are any heavens my mother will(all by herself)have one. It will not be a pansy heaven or a fragile heaven of lilies-of-the-valley but it will be a heaven of blackred roses my father will be(deep like a rose tall like a rose) standing near my swaying over her (silent) with eyes which are really petals and see nothing with the face of a poet really which is a flower and not a face with hands which whisper This is my beloved my (suddenly in sunlight he will bow, and the whole garden will bow)
Spring slattern of seasons you have soggy legs and a muddy petticoat drowsy is your hair your eyes are sticky with dream and you have a sloppy body from being brought to bed of crocuses when you sing in your whisky voice the grass rises on the head of the earth and all the trees are put on edge spring of the excellent jostle of thy hips and the superior
the moon rattles like a fragment of angry candy
that strictly(and how)scienti fic land of supernod where freedom is compulsory and only man is god.
how should tasting touching hearing seeing breathing any lifted from the no of all nothing human merely being doubt unimaginable You?
i remember we all cried like the Missouri when my Uncle Sol's coffin lurched because somebody pressed a button (and down went my uncle Sol and started a worm farm)
Like the burlesque comedian, I am abnormally fond of that precision which creates movement.
If 180 million people want to be undead, that’s their funeral, but I happen to like being alive.
By the way, a gendarme assured me this is not a prison.
Seeming's enough for slaves of space and time - ours is the now and here of freedom. Come.
If at the end of your first ten or fifteen years of fighting and working and feeling, you find you've written one line of one poem, you'll be very lucky indeed.
At least the Pilgrim Fathers used to shoot Indians: the Pilgrim Children merely punch time clocks.
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