I feel the only thing you can do about life is to preserve it, by art if you're an artist, by children if you're not.

Poetry is nobody’s business except the poet’s, and everybody else can fuck off.

Morning, noon & bloody night,Seven sodding days a week,I slave at filthy WORK, that mightBe done by any book-drunk freak.This goes on until I kick the bucket.FUCK IT FUCK IT FUCK IT FUCK IT

So many things I had thought forgottenReturn to my mind with stranger pain:Like letters that arrive addressed to someoneWho left the house so many years ago.from “Why Did I Dream of You Last Night?,

Uncontradicting solitudeSupports me on its giant palm;And like a sea-anemoneOr simple snail, there cautiouslyUnfolds, emerges, what I am.

Rather than words comes the thought of high windows:The sun-comprehending glass,And beyond it, the deep blue air, that showsNothing, and is nowhere, and is endless.

Since the majority of me Rejects the majority of you, Debating ends forthwith, and we Divide.

I am always trying to 'preserve' things by getting other people to read what I have written, and feel what I felt.

Only in books the flat and final happens, Only in dreams we meet and interlock....