I went out to buy contentment and came home with bulls' testicles. I went out to buy transcendence and came back with a mobile phone. The vileness of money is that it turns stupidity of desire into virtue. I listen to time coughing and watch the wolf in the Institute being flayed to the bone. My foreskin is a cap upon a pen that writes unbridgeable sighs.
Most texts are greater than the writer.
I have come here through the continuing hug-famine of Ireland with my portfolio of pleasures to discover that so many people are colourless attempt at living, for we are bred for rapacity, everyone criminal. But when the fashionable sun excludes you, I shall administer my bony cuddles through the breathless, fleshy night knowing the unsensual, senseless cruelty of light. A thousand poets Was declared mentally ill And unfit to work at The paper-mill. But I, unlovely human, have pale and shallow promises to keep to well-kept humans. There is no gain but hurt as we turn the planet called Earth to the planet called Dirt , the planet of pain.