from The Occupation Poems

I give to myself: a magnet, the flame
bright and slow
self-consuming in itself, self annihilating
and par for the course, the void, the identity with attraction,
she who unnerves
and voids;

I give to myself
the void
identifying with a flame’s
suppression of the object
showing the flame into being that lifts
and illuminates. 

[Sur Nietzsche, OC VI, 80.]

I can’t take it anymore, I groan
I can’t go on suffering
my prison.
I say this
with bitter
words that choke me
let me
let me go
I’m thirsting
for other things.
I want death
without dying
this hierarchy of words,
shackled
fearless
such as the fear
one yearns for;
it is nothing
this me that I am,
or else
spineless approval 
of that which is.
I hate
this instrumental being,
i look for a fissure,
my fissure,
in order to shatter.
I like the rain
the lightning,
large bodies of water,
earthen depths,
but not myself.
In the gift of the earth,
o my tomb,
deliver me from me,
I want to be no more.

[L’expérience intérieure, “Le Supplice, IV” OC V, 71-72]

Who am I
not “me” no no
but the desert the night the immensity
that I am
what is
desert immensity night beasty
born of it without return
and without ever having been
Dead
responsive
dream sodden rag
gag
that I will know that no longer
that these tears
that these tears