In the limits of a delirium/

In the limits of a delirium I have been thinking or rather becoming thought as an excess of reflexive pain about the hellucinations of texts as fiction //Literature is fashioned out of the irrational sickness of a mind leaving the obscure synaptic fractured intervals of phantasy to illuminate what is the mechanical decomposition of their mind/ corroded with narcissistic desire to add to the all ready overflowing shelves of data trash/ How inter-tangled /How confused how filthy their words leak from the orifices of their body/ In the dark flame of desire only the theoretical fiction is worth the effort for it in its non-being illuminates the impossible of the penetrating thought/the accumulation of words is only a tactic of delay hoping to put off the arrival of death/ Three nights of insomnia have bought me to a space of intoxicated fatality/ The death machine has no end to the erosion of corrosive waste which flows out in a bloody river to embrace you/ No word can cause death to abandon its memory/The only solution to the sickness of this delirium that is writing is for the writer to annihilate what has already been written/Cling to the indifference of the ruins of yr works/the fatality with the communication of horror and disgust is all that needs to be said and only once/The rest is caca/ Emerging from the blackness that will extinguish it/ we have gone beyond the the full weight of being and words cannot save nor explicate our delirious entrapment in the Post Verbal Gap of noise as an admission that I fail utterly as a writer/