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The complete title is: “On Orgasm, the Death of God, and many other formidable things in poetry and prose”.  There is no way to describe this poem.  The better room could be in suggesting a fragment.  Here we are.

Sulfur, Mercury, perborate Salt;

my grave was desecrated while 

cats were making love, their noises

imitating absurd’s harmonies:

I do not know whence I come from,

I don’t know where I go, Fate’s

hand I hold on mine hand I smile

to my destiny; even if I fear

your smile, death desire no longer

I’ll hide. As a nun you won’t come:

you’ll be a mambo, you’ll be the moon

and we will dance over the stones

we’ll making love over my grave,

drinking the night and the sound of the stars …


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