Your servant here, he has been told to say it clear, to say it cold: It’s over, it ain’t going any further And now the wheels of heaven stop you feel the devil’s riding crop Get ready for the future: it is murder.
We are so lightly here. It is in love that we are made. In love we disappear.
Love is the only engine of survival.
Dream after dream we all lie in each other’s arms.
Games are nature’s most beautiful creation.
When you call me close to tell me your body is not beautiful I want to summon the eyes and hidden mouths of stone and light and water to testify against you.
Please make me empty, if I’m empty then I can receive, if I can receive it means it comes from somewhere outside of me, if it comes from outside of me I’m not alone! I cannot bear this loneliness. Above all it is loneliness.
I dreamed about you baby. It was just the other night. Most of you was naked Ah, but some of you was light.
Who could have foretold the heart grows old from touching others.
At first first nothing will happen to us and later on it will happen to us again.
I loved you when you opened like a lily to the heat; you see I’m just another snowman standing in the rain and sleet who loved you with his frozen love, his second hand physique, with all he is and all he was a thousand kisses deep.
Even without the mushroom cloud still I would have hated Listen I would have done the same things even if there were no death I will not be held like a drunkard under the cold tap of facts I refuse the universal alibi.
I found that things became a lot easier when I no longer expected to win. You abandon your masterpiece and sink into the real masterpiece.
I’ve seen the nations rise and fall. I’ve heard their stories, heard them all, but love’s the only engine of survival.
In dreams the truth is learned that all good works are done in the absence of a caress.
Act the way you’d like to be and soon you’ll be the way you act.
The blizzard of the world has crossed the threshold and it’s overturned the order of the soul...
And I’ll bury my soul in a scrapbook, with the photographs there and the moths.
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.