Ceci n’est pas un poème déprimé
The hatred of my hatred vindicates me: I am still a consciousness in and of the world, death foreshadowing in all of its tissues My body tortures itself I must watch, I watch pain is no measure as my spirit is gone this is not suffering: I am an automaton I don't want to wait ...
Early on, I have eroticized being driven somewhere. In a vehicle I become a healthy corporeal thing sweating excitement along its thighs Do you know that experience when your body agrees with everything when it has only friendly exchanges along its periphery and there is no need for pain?