Before all else my greetings to all poets, dead or alive.

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My dead (standing firmly behind me) perpetually sing my name:

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in ortu sanguinis per peregrinationem casus ade elementa surceperunt gaudia in te.

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It’s the living that can’t stop haunting me. They seem deader than the dead. The dead feed me.

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Do you think this has grown as some sort of natural psychic mutation of the age?

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Perhaps it has something to do with being in the mountains, or the wine of my own voice.

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I belong to Shiva.

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I looked inside my body for my soul. I only found the blue-throated one.

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There was no soul.

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A slave of extremes, I'm both dead and alive: I have no need to

extract the stone of madness.

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One can't be crazy enough. I'm both Eurydice and Orpheus. I'm perpetually giving birth. My

body is schrecklich. In fact "the" body is schrecklich.

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All bodies are schrecklich.

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Thinking about this body something curiously effervescent where

good and evil reunite, absorbs me. I'm a microbe dwelling on a microbe orbiting a microbe.

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Language is the final frontier.

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Yet like birds in need of a branch to land on, words need our flesh