DISCLAIMER: This is my response to T.S. Eliot's...
they don't know the first thing about you...

Sometimes
I think I am wrong to want a woman...

The soles of my feet are rolling
and the whole of me is pitching...

I dreamt I had a
beautiful...

We are a couple of
starving artists...

I wrote about him on scraps of yellow wrapping...
with the only pen I could find...

Today's
Virgin Mary...

It's like breathing in tin foil
when every breath crinkles and spits...

Cover me in dirt, baby
and I'll be your nightmare...

Bumpy corpses of
words on the back of my tongue...

All I want is to
write something...

There is no
pure, unbroken maiden inside me...