Language as material,
Grammar as Tao,
The world is a poem.
To make a line in its most nascent form
Requires a resolute abandonment of the jaded muscle.
Then something comes through that breakage,
Like a Caesarean section, like a vagina ready for labour,
Like the eyes opening for light and darkness,
Like the day breaks and heals,
Like Lucio Fontana’s delicate violence,
Like fresh and sore wounds, like an accident,
Sometimes a deliberation.
The moth in your mouth
Speaks words of ashes.
Writing is accompanied by its own erasure,
As voices linger on your white lips.
Artists who immerse themselves in poetry and painting are to embrace the world by rejecting it, to reborn by destroying themselves, to find love through hatred. They have thrown themselves unto the Tao of the world as they live and die with it.
In beauty there is no solitude.
You cannot fathom the world before it comes into being.
Freedom lies in the consistency of the mind and body.
Art on the dimension of time, of humanity, of mortality, creates space after space, world after world.
Every creation is a mirror, through which the world manifest itself.
What is art without people?
What is music without listeners?
What is poetry without agony?
What is love without lovers?
What is birth without the destruction of the mother?
Destroy, destroy, destroy!
Then give birth.