This is how I recognize an authentic poet: by frequenting him, living a long time in the intimacy of his work, something changes in myself, not so much my inclinations or my tastes as my very blood, as if a subtle disease had been injected to alter its course, its density and nature. To live around a true poet is to feel your blood run thin, to dream a paradise of anemia, and to hear, in your veins, the rustle of tears.
Shit, It is all there is! A human is nothing more nor less than a rotting, moving, dying, talking pile of putrid excrement: SHIT. A fascist is a shit face but come on, a communist is the offspring of shit, which begets shit. Rolling around in pig dung cannot make us dirty, but can only free us from the illusion that we are cultured animals. But the only culture we have is of the bacterial sort. All we are is self-conscious shitting shits that beget not and are not begotten, since all there is, is shit, and so you could say that I am a scatologically inclined Spinozan; a proponent of the unity of Shitzistence, a pan-turdist, who knows that all things, including—especially—life are unreal save for shit, and shit is IT: It is the semiotic signifier for a life without meaning; It is pure death sprung from the illusion of life, which fertilizes more life/illusion, but it is just the expansion and contraction of shit, the be all and end all of all that is. Shit is the substance and accident, macrocosm and microcosm, one and nothingness, nirvana and Brahma, prayer and fucking, and shitting. And since shit is the only reality, shit always shits itself. Birth is nothing more than a self-reflexive bowel movement that penetrates itself for the bowel and the bowl are shit as well… and you and I—no such thing really!— live in this shit called Hell: Heaven = shit Earth = shit Hell = shit you = shit me = shit Dante = shit green shit, brown shit, black shit, stinky shit— All illusions! Shit is the purely impure undifferentiated Reality: Shit.