Drove I into theHospital parking lot andThree women stood by The wall, enshawled andWailing. Against the wall theyBeat their fists, and they Entreated their GodFor
This painting is so Glorious, it pisses me Off. Way to hog all The talent, Jan Van Eyk. I have to be content Not creating
Invincible You believe yourself, become Most vulnerable.
Who were you, giant man? I call you giant; you would have been five or six inches taller than my homo sapien ancestors, and shorter
Never were true words Spoken. What is manifest Is illusion. The Real poem is so Indescribably perfect, Just imagine it.
Which way I come, and Which way I go, you don’t know. Only my caress.