To sleep the sleep of an artist is the best sleep ever. All the foes lie vanquished, and I paint words with their blood. All the letters spent on the paper in ejaculatory fashion, like ***** to the egg. There is no fodder from dreams to be marshaled, just the birth of my creation, when I awake.
The blues that fall, from the sky, collect them in a basket, so they are warm and, dry Then stand back, and, watch them fly Higher than mountains, that speak to the sky