but language itself is a cell with tentacles
grabs around, fastens itelf to everything that sticks out
so we begin looking through the glasses of the word, of a
covering that only slowly wears out
full of double dexterities
metaphor stacked on metaphor
evermore woolly and the contours lost,
the cutting edge. the being.
language does not exist, as we forget
from time to time. it’s produced sound, by the vocal cords,
the tongue, the palate – semantically
a mistake: of the oh so soft mind
that wallows in its hard peel like a cream filling
in a chocolate egg.
nobody knows language. language proliferates cosily
in art and culture and news and in cries
of the tortured human being, if he still has a voice that is
growth itself gets named and as such
caught in sugar water, by alcohol
extracted, not made
– genitus, non factus –
in the name of
in the as good as eternal name of
our unforgettable aberration: to have to
give meaning
that isn’t there: holy be the Name
dichter/auteur || poet/writer || poétesse/écrivaine