The Stamp and the Stamp and the Stamp

I am here, but not to be here soon,
And I still don't know my meaning.
What I know is what I do,
The crossings and the turns, the sounds
And the encounters, and music
The ultimate proof. What I do not know
Is of what, and how to love. Reader,
there is no link to bind us breath to breath,
Only the unstable inheritance
Of words.

How could I be your lover or your father,
How could I take on this old chaos of the flesh,
When every flesh is the body of a word?

I say we've left the mountains, the realizations of twilight, the senses
When we speak. Aesthetics is a joke, it rings out
Hollow, because words perceive nothing,
And the vast mechanics of meaning are
Indifferent to the value of an individual sound.
Everything is taken up, everything becomes subject, object, relation —
And we, like ghosts wandering beneath the ceiling of the factory,
Wonder at the blank walls and the assembly-line,
The stamp and the stamp and the stamp.