Humans are neither wholly good, nor utterly evil; we are, rather, gloriously mixed bags.
It is not angels in want of salvation, but devils.
Obsessive Compulsive Disorder is the neurotic need for certainty and the pathological inability to ever find it.
Hell lies and fucks between Man’s randy mind and Heaven’s sunken pits; death begetting death.
It is given to me to see the sorrows of life, and rarely her beauties and joys.
Joy is birthed on the bloodied edge of sorrow’s scythe; for death is life’s only sine qua non and darkness its sole necessity.
Certitude is the lullaby lie we tell ourselves when things go bump in the night.
Poetry that is timeless is inevitably lyrical. If it does not sing – if it does not move – if it does not engage the soul – than it is simply dead wind; a fart drifting amidst the rotting leaves.