Samuel Beckett

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Radishes are all
we have. We have words, but they’re
unnecessary.

***************

Obliterate bliss.
Pulverize delirium.
Weep for butterflies.

***************

There’s no cure for a
God who is no longer young,
reduced to dying

***************

Reason is tripe. Love
is tripe. Death is tripe. But they’re
not all the same tripe.

***************

Regret nothing but
hideous calculations
and the shine of boots

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Time is a vulgar
sonata, idle discourse
for the hunted deaf

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The sun looked upon
nothingness; silent gleam of
the world’s spangled bones

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