I could understand the moon leaning across a bar on skid row
and asking for a drink, but I couldn't understand anything about
myself,
I was murdered, I was shit, I was a tentful of dogs,
I was poppies mowed down by machine-gun fire
I was a hotshot wasp in a web
I was less and less and still reaching for
something, and I thought of her corny remark
a night or so ago:
You have wounded eyes.
To do a dull thing with style – now that’s what I call art.
The poem has some value, believe me. It keeps you from going totally mad.
The cat is the beautiful devil.
People don’t need love. What they need is success in one form or another. It can be love but it needn’t be.
Justice is everywhere and it’s working.
Love it or leave it.
The whole world is caught in her glance and at last the universe is magnificent.
People lack originality.
She’s mad, but she’s magic. There’s no lie in her fire.
Let’ em learn or let’ em die.
Dogs and angels are not very far apart.
Goodness can be found sometimes in the middle of hell.
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