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They grow attached to their masks. They love their chains. They forget all about who they really are.

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I see myself as a huge fiery comet, a shooting star. Everyone stops, points up and gasps “Oh look at that!” Then – whoosh, and I’m gone… and they’ll never see anything like it ever again… and they won’t be able to forget me – ever.
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Rather than starting inside, I start outside and reach the mental through the physical.
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It may have been in pieces, but I gave you the best of me.
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Whatever you happen to be feeling at the moment is fine with them. That’s what real love amounts to – letting a person be what he really is.
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Getting drunk . . . you’re in complete control up to a point. It’s your choice, every time you take a sip.
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We are content in the ‘given’ in sensation’s quest. We have been metamorphosised from a mad body dancing on hillsides to a pair of eyes staring in the dark.
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Listen, real poetry doesn’t say anything; it just ticks off the possibilities. Opens all doors. You can walk through anyone that suits you.
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There’s nothing wrong with being a large mammal.
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Society, parents they refuse to allow you to keep the freedom you were born with.
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The time to hesitate is through.
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Everybody insists that freedom is what they want the most, the most sacred and precious thing a man can possess. But that’s bullshit! People are terrified to be set free – they hold on to their chains.
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You’ve seen your birth, your life and death. You might recall all the rest. Did you have a good world when you died? Enough to base a movie on?
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All your soft wild promises were words, birds, endlessly in flight.
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All our lives we sweat and save, Building for a shallow grave.
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Where are the feasts we were promised? Where is the wine, the new wine, dying on the vine.
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