You flop down into the personal
Like a triumph of years standing on end

Here the noiseless mind
Is like a quiet wind

I’m not going to cry all the time
nor shall I laugh all the time,
I don’t prefer one “strain” to another.

After the first glass of vodka
you can accept just about anything
of life even your own mysteriousness

The night paints inhaling smoke and semen. 
    The frail face pulses like a parachute,
    corridors of shakes melting from the boot

A whispering far away

heard by the poet in a bower
of flesh his limbs stir

I’m getting tired of not wearing underwear
and then again I like it
                                           strolling along

We join the animals
not when we fuck 
             or shit

I am stuck in traffic in a taxicab
which is typical
and not just of modern life

Picasso made me tough and quick, and the world;
just as in a minute plane trees are knocked down
outside my window by a crew of creators.