Its snaky acids kiss.It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults That kill, that kill, that kill.

Love is a shadow. How you lie and cry after it

Dying is an art.Like everything else, I do it exceptionally well.I do it so it feels like hell.I do it so it feels real.I guess you could say I have a call.

Is it the sea you hear in me, Its dissatisfactions?Or the voice of nothing, that was you madness?

The blood jet is poetryThere is no stopping it.

I am inhabited by a cry. Nightly it flaps outLooking, with its hooks, for something to love.

Stasis in darkness.Then the substanceless blue

The still watersWrap my lips, Eyes, nose and ears, A clearCellophane I cannot crack.

What is so real as the cry of a child?A rabbit's cry may be wilderBut it has no soul.

They had to call and callAnd pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.--From the poem "Lady Lazarus", written 23-29 October 1962

The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.

Ah! That glance of yours did some magic on me, you were not aware of. For once I died and was reborn. To put it simply: you did (CRL+ALT+DELETE) to my mind!

The cell door slammed behind Rubishov.

This guy makes coffee nervous.

If two people are at completely different stages in their spiritual life, that can present a real problem.

Bureaucrats are a pox. They are supposed to be necessary. Certain chemicals in the body are supposed to be necessary to life, but cause death the moment they increase beyond a suitable limit

You can't clobber any reader while he's looking. You divert his attention, then you clobber him and he never knows what hit him.

The harder they hit, the more encouraged I get.

You can't hold the record forever, and I know that. I'm not stupid.

This flick is all I have to say about being 17, the United States Navy, Christmas and the Fourth of July.

The simple and most complex answer is love.