I could never love a woman who does not write poems It may not be the way things are said these days, but I am a man out of time. I need the blood that flows through them for I am weary of bloodless women.
I have aged 100 years since the dead of this last winter My skin is paper. My nerves are bare and my eyes will soon be chalk So read me from your heart - read me with your soft blue eyes. Let me dream of the wine of my plunder
I could understand a woman who’d turn her back on poems - but for love, not to define herself by –isms and politicise her –asms… I need a woman who is the author of her own life, not the client of what others would have her think herself to be.
Come lover, we’ll go walking - hand me down my boots and shoes I’ll hobble on my numb and stumbling stumps for one last ramble through the sands. See the trees? Their hands beseech, from the hill, your voice to rise in poem one last time.