O wind, songs have ye in her name? Plucked her did ye from midnight blasted millyard winds and made her renown ring in stone and brick and ice? Hard implacable bridges of iron cross her milk of brows?...
NatureJust because you shit fruitDon't think you're the Kingpin of the World
My manners, abominable at times, can be sweet. As I grew older I became a drunk. Why? Because I like ecstasy of the mind. I'm a wretch. But I love, love.
Mankind will someday realize that we are actually in contact with the dead and with the other world, whatever it is; right now we could predict, if we only exerted enough mental will, what is going to...
Los huesos humanos no son más que vanas líneas que se desvanecen, el universo entero un vacío molde de estrellas.
Lonely as America, a throatpierced sound in the night.
Keep it kickwriting at all costs too, that is, write only what kicks you and keeps you overtime awake from sheer mad joy.
It always makes me proud to love the world somehow- hate's so easy compared.
It all ends in tears anyway.
In those days he really didn't know what he was talking about; that is to say, he was a young jailkid all hung-up on the wonderful possibilities of becoming a real intellectual, and he liked to talk i...
If you can't boogie I know I'll show you how.
I'm the golden eternity in mortal animate form.
I would fave preferred the happy man to the unhappy poems he's left us
I took a straight picture that made me look like a thirty-year-old Italian who'd kill anybody who said something against his mother.
I started to cry. And I looked up and saw the bleak pines by the bleak mills of Roanoke Rapids with one final despair, like the despair of a man who has nothing left to do but leave the earth forever.
I sat cross-legged in the sand and contemplated my life. Well, there, and what difference did it make? What's going to happen to me up ahead?
I realize all the uncountable manifestations the thinking-mind invents to place wall of horror before its pure perfect realization that there is no wall and no horror just Transcendental Empty Kissabl...
I looked. George Shearing. And as always he leaned his blind head on his pale hand, all ears opened like the ears of an elephant, listening to the American sounds and mastering them for his own Englis...
I liked him; not because he was a good sort, as he later proved to be, but because he was enthusiastic about things.
I had traveled eight thousand miles around the American continent and I was back on Times Square; and right in the middle of a rush hour, too, seeing with my innocent road-eyes the absolute madness an...