Everything is pure stridency
of shouting or silence,
the horror of vibration
on the threshold of the self,
in the intestine and in the head,
like a void of signifier,
a cancerous mutism.

The reason is obvious:
I don't understand anything.
I no longer understand anything.
and there are no words
to understand the pain
This particular pain
made of repetitions,
of resignation before the cancer,
and the burning in the skin,
of discursive surgeries,
of sheer stridency and oppression.

I don't understand anything,
absolutely nothing
of the massive attempt to justify,
of the absurdity that sinks me.
The cancer in things is real.
Plagues grow in the mouth
and tear the possibility of saying.

But my resistance is incorruptible,
I keep a damp den
in the cavity of the possible,
and the fertility of the tongue.