I will go back and forth and never be.

It is the irrational That is worth living for.

Beachy Head brims with electrical currents flying backwards and forwards, with the force of poems that have been well fought out and felt. I hear the currents of Alice Notley, of Bernadette Mayer, of Eileen Myles, and Sylvia Plath.

Real poetry is a party, a wild party, a party where anything might happen. A party from which you may never return home.

But there is there to carry us past it

I put myself inI mean for what, why,Or whoDid I manage to do this for if not you

Thought Moves you past these lines Into conversation With the undead

In the deepest part I still loved himHad gone with himTo the blazing star lodge

Lilaced thing The soft rustle of beetle wingsIn air that is warm and greyAnd is not strong

The sugar the ice on planets and starsThe romance of the eveningCoated in ice from your dead fleshAlready rotting from within