It’s just another stop on the curvy roadthe final encounterfor the man who has liveddeath is the answer.

Do not judge a woman on her knees_you never know how tall she is when she stands!

I ain’t scared to lend a handI ain’t scared to clench it either

Do not judge a woman on her knees: you never know how tall she is when she stands.

I wore you on me at all timesLike I now carry my pen.Unlike your own opinion myBelongings must have a function.You bled through the ink of my lines andTo be my subject nursed your thirst.Was it my fault, or your own, that you forgot—I do not deal in tender verse.

Women in love are patheticand I cannot be bothered, for now,I am back to metaphysicsand my armpits gather hair.

I have not encouraged talk about man’s holy privacy, although I do respect and defend man’s right to have it.

Had I only known my lettersWould be of such importanceI’d empty myself on paperEvery single morning’And it was for such reason,as she read his little stanza,that she decided to stamponefinalletter:‘Every single morningI’d empty myself on paperYou were my greater importanceThat’s why I wrote you letters.

We quenched the bulging flame, amongst the ashes embers of fire remain

The match I struck shall not run deadYou’re my first inhale, my last cigarette.

Lonely you linger in a league above poetry.

No man has the courage to approach her or initiate questions she herself rise, for all men fear a fascist and she can very well be a fascist’s wife.

What differentiated us was our perception of our mutual reality, which made no difference.