artist

Gas, and the surburban moll, running through sacred fields — no one notices the blood on their crotches as they frolic on drugs.  I must be myself, or I’ll perish in the crabgrass.  I must find the calm to accomplish my musical goals.

If you say something nice, you’re naive; if you’re critical, you’re too cynical.  Russian is the hallucination of English.

So, you’ve written and written … what have you got to show for it but lousy everyday madness?  Well, I’ve tried everything else, but writing always returns no matter how severe the extremes.

Nancy Pancy the Patsy is a latent gay.  She knows her triggers.  She’s full of giggles when she sees you know what get bigger and bigger — what a hitter!

It’s getting late for Hydrogen flowers, whose petals of doom do not exclude the groom; but beware of the conventional hypocrite.  Sleepy Rose is in her throes.  Wise guys fail to be wise.  Once, twice, and thrice, World Wars broke out, and the calendar is irrelevant.  Justice was cut by laser fire.  The demise was instant; the solution fatal to all who called Beersheeba and Pot — oh my, oh my, the greatest flower could not devour.

Oh!  Why have I been branded here by the Village queers?  How much anger does stare at the bottomless whore?  Jeffrey the Nunless and Mary Page and ruthless Arthur, the slave, are here for the convention of deer salesmen with guns.  Oh boy!  Oh boy!  Someone will be killed.

Reality is ugly.  That’s nothing new.  Get out of the pew.  Don’t be so rude.  Come on James, find a way to row to Michael’s shore.  Let’s forget the raw weather of blight.  Keep you weary sight upon the heights of Maw.  Don’t saturate your hope.  Bring in the ship of might.  There’s some hope.  Run to the Pope.  Why are you a mope?  People, people, people, everywhere.  Who dares to fall?  Who dares to stall?  Dance on bright warrior.  Seek nothing new.  You’ve been through everything, so just do your thing.