We have been saying this, both pre season and before the season started
The Saints come, as human as a mouth, with a bag of God in their backs, like a hunchback, they come, they come marching in.
Poems aren't postcards to send home.
There is rust in my mouth,the stain of an old kiss.
It's a little mad, but I believe I am many people. When I am writing a poem, I feel I am the person who should have written it.
If I could blame it on all the mothers and fathers of the world, they of the lessons, the pellets of power, they of the love surrounding you like batter. . . Blame it on God perhaps? He of the first opening that pushed us all into our first mistakes? No, I'll blame it on Man For Man is God and man is eating the earth up like a candy bar and not one of them can be left alone with the ocean for it is known he will gulp it all down. The stars (possibly) are safe. At least for the moment. The stars are pears that no one can reach, even for a wedding. Perhaps for a death.
I would like a simple life yet all night I am laying poems away in a long box.
The sane are madder than we think, the mad saner.
The poet Paul Éluard says that to understand my film version of Beauty and the Beast, you must love your dog more than your car.
Without Christ there would be no Christmas and without Christ there can be no fulness of JOY
When true forgiveness happens it is one of the most astonishing and liberating of the human experience.