Coleridge
serves to remind me
of *****
and heavenly dreams.

Burn the heretic
he's not poetic
and not
Wordsworth either.

They'll **** me with jealousy
and make me a saint

On the spiral staircase
dressed in Irish lace
she goes around in
my head.

I said nothing to her,
she listened to the
Robins in the garden

He painted tomorrow on a canvas
from Picasso
I knew it was phoney,
but I let the
thought go.

We finished on ouzo,
those Greeks you know are
the masters of
understatement.