he is cause of all things and yet he is not anything.
nothingness is creation, Dionysus tells, the
ecstasy of abjection. the pleasure of the chasm of the hollow you wrenched from me, exhumed me from sedentariness; i am unbridled for half year, exothermic, i
scare my friends and yet you have never touched me (not never) and soil still coats my
teeth and mouth and throat and it is coarse and i hurt constantly.
Poem loosely based on "A Nocturnal Upon St Lucy's Day" by John Donne
Display Image Credit: La jeune fille et la mort by Henri-Léopold Lévy, 1900
