An unfinished business, a longing for the gutter.
Lose life to find victory.
Give me a place to stand.
Who cannot lift himself?
My reader, my double, my brother.
The right to be let alone: No more deadly curse.
Weary without challenge, this monster of habit, the womb of monsters.
Something's gotta happen.
If he could he'd want to sing, or glow, or burst, or cry.
Impossible to enslave, beast of muddy brain.
The work of art, a confession.
Art is long, life short.
The sweetest inclination.
In fear of oblivion, patient enough to toil, the soil is bare.
I have set my affairs on nothing:
The pit, the pendulum.
No coward soul is mine, beautiful twilight, martyrs by the thousands.
With wisdom grows doubt.
Breathes there the man with soul so dead.
In the night that covers me, the head, the heart, the hand.
I am the grass: I cover all.