Private Language In / creasing thought, the self   doubles / folds  inwards,  suppose a private language  against the world’s shared grammar —   self-authored, a book   written for no .  one.    A page     torn away, stains     in the margins, a footnote    wrongly numbered, the letter ‘i’    faintly printed.      Such is the pain of the man  who yearns  for his whole self   between the covers of biography   and meets only   estrangement.

On the Point of Vanishing     Cogito ergo ends with a sum   beyond my reckoning:     Thoughts add up   and multiply   exponentially like...

The soul of the king an out-of-tune lyre with harpstrings for guts – many sharps and flats. Sent by the LORD the holy pneuma's hand scrapes unholy noise. It maddens the king with dissonant thought – the fatal vibration of blood in the heart until he is dead.

There is (if you care to know), a flower of folly growing On my brain, on the surface of the matter’s deep. Fit for the Fire, its fate is...

In my mind a series of irrational numbers, of non-repeatable fractions without end. Something doesn’t add up. I am divided,...