Preface #4

I can only write poetry that is like a tuba covered with blood...

No asylums, crack-houses, jails, hitchiker's cars, ditches or body dumps for me!

If I find a piece of rope...I must use it to tie myself to the bedposts...

If I find the pretty pink horse pills etc.

This is not a mini-gun with which to shoot myself.

You can say many nasty things about poetry if you like...

But Chelsey understands what is expected of her!




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