Just making love—to fuck. Insanely— And to know it doesn’t stop nothing stops—my mind—my vision. Leaves bud grow—go brown and fall to the ground. The sea—a deep blue keeps turning the stars shine—the sun rolls and the earth moves around it— And sperm doesn’t stop it just goes on for ever— like pollen blowing in the wind...
Here in the electric dusk your naked lover tips the glass high and the ice cubes fall against her teeth. It’s beautiful Susan, her hair sticky with gin, Our Lady of Wet Glass-Rings on the Album Cover, streaming with hatred in the heat as the record falls and the snake-band chords begin to break like terrible news from the Rolling Stones, and such a last...
Sam Cooke, Danny Boy The man, the man, the man.
Like musical instruments Abandoned in a field The parts of your feelings Are starting to know a quiet The pure conversion of your Life into art seems destined Never to occur You don’t mind You feel spiritual and alert As the air must feel Turning into sky aloft and blue You feel like You’ll never feel like touching...
By relating itself to its own self and by willing to be itself, the self is...– Soren Kierkegaard