We are so lightly here. It is in love that we are made. In love we disappear.
Love is the only engine of survival.
Do not believe the truth. The truth is tiny compared to what you have to do.
I alwaysthought of myself as a competent, minor poet. I know who I’m up against.
Growing old becomes clear to you at a certain point. I think it’s after the age of 70 you realize – you begin to actually be convinced – you’re growing older.
It is easy to display a wound, the proud scars of combat. It is hard to show a pimple.
Only one thing made him happy and now that it was gone everything made him happy.
I am running through a snowfall which is her thighs, he dramatized in purple. Her thighs are filling up the street. Wide as a snowfall, heavy as huge falling Zeppelins, her damp thighs are settling on the sharp roofs and wooden balconies. Weather-vanes press the shape of roosters and sail-boats into the skin. The faces of famous statues are preserved like intaglios...
I guess that I miss you, I guess I forgive you, I’m glad you stood in my way.
I ache in the places where I used to play...
I never think about The Past but sometimes The Past thinks about me and sits down ever so lightly on my face –.
Listen, my friend, listen to the present, the right now, it’s all around us, painted like a target, red, white and blue. Sail into the target like a dart, a fluke bull’s eye in a dirty pub. Empty your memory and listen to the fire around you. Don’t forget your memory, let it exist somewhere precious in all the colours that it needs but somewhere else, hoist your memory on the ship of State like a pirate’s sail, and aim yourself at the tinkly present.
A teacher I once had told me that the older you get, the lonelier you become and the deeper the love you need. Loneliness creates an appetite for deeper love, and the entire predicament deepens. And as a result of suffering, your capacity to love deeply increases.
I’m old and the mirrors don’t lie.
As he died to make men holy, let us die to make things cheap.
What I loved in my old life – I haven’t forgotten – it lives in my spine.
Forget the perfect offering. Everything is flawed. It’s the cracks that let the Light in...
It looks like freedom but it feels like death, it’s something in between I guess. It’s closing time.
Don’t write about ideas... write about convictions of the heart.
I am this thing that needs to sing.