It Is June. I Am Tired Of

Psychiatry Is A Dirty Mirror.

And Tonight Our Skin, Our Bones, That Have Survived Our Fathers, Will Meet, Delicate In The Hold, Fastened Together In An Intricate Lock. Then One Of Us Will Shout, "my Need Is More Desperate!" And I Will Eat You Slowly With Kisses Even Though The Killer In You Has Gotten Out.

Saints Have No Moderation, Nor Do Poets, Just Exuberance.

All In All, I'd Say, The World Is Strangling.

We Are America. We Are The Coffin Fillers. We Are The Grocers Of Death. We Pack Them In Crates Like Cauliflowers.