Dear, I can't write, it's all a fantasy: a kind of circling obsession.

I wouldn't mind seeing China if I could come back the same day.

...the breath that sharpens life is life itself...

The way the moon dashes through clouds that blow Loosely as cannon-smoke... Is a reminder of the strength and pain Of being young; that it can't come again, But is for others undiminished somewhere.

There is bad in all good authors: what a pity the converse isn't true!

Most things may never happen: this one will.

Depression hangs over me as if I were Iceland.

SEX is designed for people who like overcoming obstacles.

Saki says that youth is like hors d'oeuvres: you are so busy thinking of the next courses you don't notice it. When you've had them, you wish you'd had more hors d'oeuvres.

In times when nothing stood / but worsened, or grew strange / there was one constant good: / she did not change.

Only in books the flat and final happens, Only in dreams we meet and interlock....

It becomes still more difficult to find Words at once true and kind, Or not untrue and not unkind.

I'd like to think...that people in pubs would talk about my poems

Here is unfenced existence

I have wished you something None of the others would....

Life is slow dying.

Books are a load of crap

Time has transfigured them into Untruth. The stone fidelity They hardly meant has come to be Their final blazon, and to prove Our almost-instinct almost true: What will survive of us is love.

This is the first thing I have understood: Time is the echo of an axe within a wood.

One of the quainter quirks of life is that we shall never know who dies on the same day as we do ourselves.

“You just can’t live in that negative way….. make way for the positive day.”

“None but ourselves can free our minds.” – Bob Marley

“I no have education. I have inspiration. If I was educated I would be a damn fool.”

“Two thousand years of history Black History could not be wiped away so easily.”—Zion Train, from the album Uprising (1980)

“You have to be someone.”

“You just can’t live that negative way. You know what I mean. Make way for the positive day. Cause it’s a new day…”

“You not supposed to feel down over whatever happen to you. I mean, you’re supposed to use whatever happen to you as some type of upper, not a downer.”

“Don’t give up the fight, Stand up for your rights.”

“It take many a year, mon, and maybe some bloodshed must be, but righteousness someday prevail.”

“The day you stop racing is the day you win the race.”

Uncontradicting solitude Supports me on its giant palm; And like a sea-anemone Or simple snail, there cautiously Unfolds, emerges, what I am.

Home is so sad. It stays as it was left, / Shaped to the comfort of the last to go / As if to win them back

Sex means nothing--just the moment of ecstasy, that flares and dies in minutes.

Parents fuck you up. They don't mean to but they do.

I have a sense of melancholy isolation, life rapidly vanishing, all the usual things. It's very strange how often strong feelings don't seem to carry any message of action.

Rather than words comes the thought of high windows: The sun-comprehending glass, And beyond it, the deep blue air, that shows Nothing, and is nowhere, and is endless.

Since the majority of me Rejects the majority of you, Debating ends forthwith, and we Divide.

Everyone should be forcibly transplanted to another continent from their family at the age of three.

Deprivation is for me what daffodils were for Wordsworth.

I am always trying to 'preserve' things by getting other people to read what I have written, and feel what I felt.

I have no enemies. But my friends don't like me.

Poetry is nobody’s business except the poet’s, and everybody else can fuck off.

What will survive of us is love.

So many things I had thought forgotten Return to my mind with stranger pain: Like letters that arrive addressed to someone Who left the house so many years ago.

I feel the only thing you can do about life is to preserve it, by art if you're an artist, by children if you're not.

How little our careers express what lies in us, and yet how much time they take up. It's sad, really.

I can't understand these chaps who go round American universities explaining how they write poems: It's like going round explaining how you sleep with your wife.

Originality is being different from oneself, not others.

Something, like nothing, happens anywhere.

On me your voice falls as they say love should, Like an enormous yes.