No longing for the moonlight
No longing for the sun
No longer will I curse the bad I've done
If there's a time when your feeling's gone, I wanna feel it

For Grace, After A Party

You do not always know what I am feeling.
Last night in the warm spring air while I was
blazing my tirade against someone who doesn't
interest me,
it was love for you that set me afire,
and isn't it odd? for in rooms full of
strangers my most tender feelings
writhe and bear the fruit of screaming.
Put out your hand,
isn't there an ashtray, suddenly, there?
beside the bed?
And someone you love enters the room
and says wouldn't you like the eggs a little
different today?
And when they arrive they are
just plain scrambled eggs and the warm weather
is holding.

There is something sad about people going to bed. You can see they don’t give a damn whether they’re getting what they want out of life or not, you can see they don’t ever try to understand what we’re here for. They just don’t care. Americans or not, they sleep no matter what, they’re bloated mollusks, no sensibility, no trouble with their conscience.
I’d seen too many troubling things to be easy in my mind. I knew too much and not enough. I’d better go out, I said to myself, I’d better go out again. Maybe I’ll meet Robinson. Naturally that was an idiotic idea, but I dreamed it up as an excuse for going out again, because no matter how I tossed and turned on my narrow bed, I couldn’t snatch the tiniest scrap of sleep. Even masturbation, at times like that, provides neither comfort nor entertainment. Then you're really in despair.

To hell with reality! I want to die in music, not in reason or in prose. People don't deserve the restraint we show by not going into delirium in front of them. To hell with them!

At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

Mother of otherness,
Eat me.

I'm looking for a place to go
Where the sun goes down
And stays down
I'm looking for a place to go
Where I can lay low
...Die slow

And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.