On the Will to Power and Distinctive Souls
After Allen Ginsberg

There's something about life, the way fifty

thousand black holes aren't any more

terrifying than a step. It shocks

me how we have lost the will

to power and no longer amor fati and never

again will love Nietzsche or return

to the light to contemplate Ginsberg. Your

pen feels hollow because the ink burst onto your soul

leaving you to

clean up the mess and empty its

contents—ink and the desire to drive a body

to the abyss and yank it back again.

Little does that body know but its distinctive soul has been released from

it and is hurtling through its

wonderland nightmares on a pilgrimage

beyond the abyss to

a long lost brother in debauchery, a

friend in fuckups and good intentions with whom to cross

into the next world, in which drunk elves play fantasia so the

lion will sleep far from the lamb in time to fill the void.