Play the Piano Drunk Like a Percussion Instrument Until the Fingers Begin to Bleed a Bit

you son of a bitch, she said, I am trying to build a meaningful relationship. you can't build it with a hammer, he said.

I care for you, darling, I love you, the only reason I fucked L. is because you fucked Z. and then I fucked R. and you fucked N. and because you fucked N. I had to fuck Y. But I think of you constantly, I feel you here in my belly like a baby, love I'd call it, no matter what happens I'd call it love, and so you fucked C. and then before I could move you fucked W., so I had to fuck D. But I want you to know that I love you, I think of you constantly, I don't think I've ever loved anybody like I love you.

it's good to have things done with when they don't work it's also good not to hate or even forget the person you've failed with.

Long ago, among other lies they were taught that silence was bravery.

I like to prowl ordinary places and taste the people- from a distance.

love needs too much help, he said. hate takes care of itself.

hate contains truth. beauty is a facade.

I have, he went on, betrayed myself with belief, deluded myself with love tricked myself with sex. the bottle is damned faithful, he said, the bottle will not lie

for me obedience to another is the decay of self

I have lost my rhythm. I can't sleep. I can't eat. I have been robbed of my filth.

I like to prowl ordinary places. I feel sorry for us all or glad for us all caught alive together and awkward in that way. there's nothing better than the joke of us the seriousness of us the dullness of us

for me obedience to another is the decay of self. for though every being is similar each being is different and to herd our differences under one law degrades each self.

it's so easy to be a poet and so hard to be a man.

I've learned to feel good when I feel good. it's better to be driven around in a red porsche than to own one. the luck of the fool is inviolate.

there's no defense except all the errors made

they pulled Ezra through the streets in a wooden cage. Blake was sure of God. Villon was a mugger. Lorca sucked cock. T. S. Eliot worked a teller's cage

waiting in a life full of little stories for a death to come

I wait on my fix: I am a poetry junkie.

we should have known. maybe we wanted cotton candy luck. maybe we believed. what trash. we believed like dogs believe.

meat is cut as roses are cut men die as dogs die love dies like dogs die, he said.

the lies of centuries, the lies of love, the lies of Socrates and Blake and Christ will be your bedmates and tombstones in a death that will never end.

agony can kill or agony can sustain life but peace is always horrifying

the generals and the doctors may kill us but we have won.

I like to prowl ordinary places and taste the people—from a distance. I don’t want them too near because that’s when attrition starts.

you son of a bitch, she said, I am trying to build a meaningful relationship. you can’t build it with a hammer, he said.

play the piano she says it’s not good for you not to write.

I know that I have deserted you, the icecubes pile like fool’s gold in the pitcher and now they are playing Alex Scriabin which is a little better but not much for me.

...the drawing is poor and I know little of the plot: