In The End, Every Hypochondriac Is His

Pity The Planet, All Joy Gone From This Sweet Volcanic Cone; Peace To Our Children When They Fall In Small War On The Heel Of Small War--until The End Of Time To Police The Earth, A Ghost Orbiting Forever Lost In Our Monotonous Sublime

History Has To Live With What Was Here, Clutching And Close To Fumbling All We Had - It Is So Dull And Gruesome How We Die, Unlike Writing, Life Never Finishes.

Life Begins To Happen. My Hoppped Up Husband Drops His Home Disputes, And Hits The Streets To Cruise For Prostitutes

In The End, Every Hypochondriac Is His Own Prophet.

I Will Catch Christ With A Greased Worm, And When The Prince Of Darkness Stalks My Bloodstream To Its Stygian Term . . . On Water The Man-fisher Walks.