There are no limits to this life.
The cup can be brimming over with pain
but there are always more chalices.
Don’t speak to me of soil when you mean shit.
Don’t exalt sacrifice
in the slaughterhouse.
Speak the truth if you can:
that the gods draw their strength
from the dead alone—like mushrooms,
like mold, like the must
that turns water to wine.
Listen you lovers of youth, an augury
Apollo would have me suppress:
Know others as thyself
if you crave ambrosia.
I leave you
with every breath.