Poetry Is Not The Record Of An

Pity The Planet, All Joy Gone From This Sweet Volcanic Cone

I Myself Am Hell; Nobody's Here

Talking About The Past Is Like A Cat's Trying To Explain Climbing Down A Ladder.

History Has To Live With What Was Here, Clutching And Close To Fumbling All We Had - It Is So Dull And Gruesome How We Die, Unlike Writing, Life Never Finishes.

The World Is Absolutely Out Of Control Now And Is Not Going To Be Saved By Any Reason Or Unreason.