She’s like a good book:
One is avid but in a
Hurry to finish.

Life is where you can’t
Believe what your friends tell you
About your haircut.

Men prefer women’s
Bodies to their souls because
They change more slowly.

My skills as a thief
Have enabled me to steal
What belongs to me.

The library of
The inner self publishes
No glib synopsis.

So obscene in the
Strainer of biography,
The warm cheap detail.

The pointlessness of
Principles: to keep you from
Behaving badly.

Too frivolous, we
Are betrayed by the depths; too
Deep and we get bored.

To consider what
One wants is to go in a
Hundred directions.

Human risk, wretched
Human purity: nothing
Unsubtractable.

At least life is brief:
It holds your face in the shit
And then lets you go.

The moment we use
The word "vision" we are no
Longer persuaded.
 

Fifty-two years old
And I made it without kil-
Ling anybody.

Chaos eats outward
At the compact order in
The heart of chaos.

My daemon uses me
To read every book
I can get my hands on.

Those who cannot bear
Being alone can seldom
Be good company.

My vulgarity
Is all that stands between me
And my suicide.

Desperate thoughts, from the
Outside so beautiful, so
Ugly from within.

It was the poets
Who invented God, after
Which they swallowed him.