This morning I’ve returned from the ocean without news, save that the cold eyes of the shark are the electrolysis of blood and it is an endless song.
The soul has three goblets. One holds the drink of hope; the second, forgetfulness; the third, all the sadnesses.
Jesus promised forgiveness but his cup has been stolen.
My heart beats too rapidly to live in my nation.
Here is a humble discovery: winged joys can be kissed.
I always thought Blake was being figurative.
O quixotic bird poem-thing, no one knows what in the hell we are!
Planet of the Blind 