Life and Existence

The longest journey Is the journey inwards Of him who has chosen his destiny.

The longest journey Is the journey inwards Of him who has chosen his destiny.

there are so many people dead and so many sea-walls that the red sun used to split, and so many heads that the boats hit, and so many hands that have closed around kisses, and so many things I would like to forget.

O my floating life Do not save love to the flood

Nobody, nothing than time which if intense

Here lies my past. Good-bye I have kissed it; Thank you, kids. I wouldn’t have missed it.

I was much too far out all my life And not waving but drowning.

How confusing the beams from memory’s lamp are; One day a bachelor, the next a grampa. What is the secret of the trick? How did I get so old so quick?

How confusing the beams from memory’s lamp are; One day a bachelor, the next a grampa. What is the secret of the trick? How did I get so old so quick?

Listen, Christ, You did alright in your day, I reckon— But that day’s gone now. They ghosted you up a swell story, too, Called it Bible— But it’s dead now.

Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

In the middle of the road there was a stone there was a stone in the middle of the road there was a stone in the middle of the road there was a stone.

I will not see it! Tell the moon to come for I do not want to see the blood of Ignacio on the sand.

At five in the afternoon. Ah, that fatal five in the afternoon! It was five by all the clocks! It was five in the shade of the afternoon!

Black are the horses. The horseshoes are black. On the dark capes glisten stains of ink and of wax. Their skulls are leaden, which is why they don’t weep. With their patent leather souls they come down the street.

George Brush is my name America’s my nation Luddington’s my dwelling place And Heaven’s my destination.

Take your delight in momentariness, Walk between dark and dark—a shining space With the grave’s narrowness, though not its peace.

a hopeless case if—listen: there’s a hell of a good universe next door; let’s go

my father moved through dooms of love through sames of am through haves of give, singing each morning out of each night my father moved through depths of height

anyone lived in a pretty how town (with up so floating many bells down) spring summer autumn winter he sang his didn’t he danced his did.

nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

Buffalo Bill’s defunct and break onetwothreefourfive pigeons- he was a handsome man how do you like your blueeyed boy Mister Death

Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song, A medley of extemporanea; And love is a thing that can never go wrong; And I am Marie of Roumania.

And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.