An excerpt from a lecture that I am working on

And yet, there has been no mention of Clara. At this very moment, she is stirring within me. And when Clara flows, she rises from our blood, gasping, deliberate, four jets of water streaming across the broken stars, and a solitary wrist flees from our closed wound. Clara is the dark trembling that silences steel pipes, that spirit – yes, that spirit! – that leads my hand through a multitude of headless prostitutes. This is Clara! This is the spirit of poetry! Clara is the spirit of poetry! As one writes, one feels Clara, a haunting and heady presence, a voice of history, the truth, anti-existential, the dialectical struggle of poetry. Under the possession of Clara, one can neither reach absolute truth nor true enlightenment. Therefore, the poet exists in a state of constant disorder, not entirely belonging to the fantastic world or this world. And in this disorder, Clara seeks refuge in our throat and, at the same time, becomes that blurry haze of asphalt that, as you near, travels farther, unreachable.