Pulp Poets Press

to be human seems like a poor, sorry, miserable affair, limited by the senses, restricted by moralities and codes defined by platitudes and isms.

I have found God, but he is insufficient.

I acquired expensive habits and affected manners. I got a third-class degree and a first-class illusion: that I was a poet.

Surely in isolation one becomes a god

BOOK HANGOVER

Wave after wave, each mightier than the last, Till last, a ninth one, gathering half the deep And full of voices, slowly rose and plunged Roaring, and all the wave was in flame

The clouds were gathering over the high sea, an eternity of warm tears

You are about to begin reading Italo Calvino's new novel, If on a winter's night a traveler. Relax. Concentrate. Dispel every other thought. Let the world around you fade.

Jesus died for somebody's sins, but not mine

There is a constant barrier between the reader and his consciousness of immediate contact with the world. If there is an ocean it is here.