The fields whist, beasts, and fowls of divers bue

Yesterday, upon the stair / I met a man who wasn’t there / He wasn’t there again today / I wish, I wish he’d go away …

So much 'performance art' tends to be a kind of closed, aloof, imagistic, private vision.

‘It became all the more important for me to get out because my son Foster, aged now fifteen, is only ten points below genius and this genius would have been unavailing and supervacaneous, in other words wasted, behind the iron curtain.’