Linger in the pressure of the thing, take it with your hand, with your sacrilegious claw, be the anathema, the iconoclast of the word, make your task a damned heresy, connect with the object, assume it for a moment as part of you - although it will be of everyone when you distribute -, of your most private property, stolen from the temple and coldly distributed later, blasphemes everything before it, reduces each of its parts, its verses, its choruses, its stanzas to old ash. Because the poem is a craft from a thousand devils, the poem has nothing mystical or sacred, it was not born from above, nor does it depend on absolute inspiration. The word of the poem is a profanation, a libertine act, a vanity and a gluttony of the tongue, it has taken the words from the sacred scriptures to make them freedom and sin; It has nothing of an aura and more than a spiritual ecstasy it entails an immoral orgasm within each verse, within each chosen word. It often claims to be valued as liturgical, but it is nothing more than a revolutionary act, very different from the pristine and red glass of the tabernacle. The poem is a rebellious and self-affirming task that, standing up in the face of false prophets and injustices, parks its filth in front of the reader and reveals the world as it is, plain, pedestrian, sexual. The sublime is distorted, it finds its vanishing point, its encrypted sky, its displacement, in short, its heretical interpretation in every word, in every world. And that's it: at this moment you are ready to write poetry, you have gotten rid of all simulation of sacredness and elevation. You have understood that if you do not start from what crawls, you will not be able to enter into what flies.