There is no Space or TimeOnly intensity, And tame thingsHave no immensity

We might have coupledIn the bed-ridden monopoly of a momentOr broken flesh with one anotherAt the profane communion tableWhere wine is spill'd on promiscuous lipsWe might have given birth to a butterflyWith the daily-newsPrinted in blood on its wings

She is yet like a diamond on a heap of broken glass.

Some say that happy women are immaterial.

The past has come apart events are vagueingthe future is inexploitable

Poetry is prose bewitched, a music made of visual thoughts, the sound of an idea.

LOVE of others is the appreciation of one's self. MAY your egotism be so gigantic that you comprise mankind in your self-sympathy.

It is not given to each of usTo be desired.

Oh that's right Keep away from me Please give me a pushDon't let me understand you Don't realise meOr we might tumble togetherDepersonalizedIdenticalInto the terrific NirvanaMe you --- you --- me

MAN is a slave only to his own mental lethargy.

LOVE the hideous in order to find the sublime core of it.