I can't write right now
something bad keeping me down
flattening my whole existence
so that breath no longer fills my lungs,
 poison no longer tortures my liver,
 sweat no longer produced in glands
whose new purpose as yet unknown
sitting comfortably out of the action
my soul rises from my body
like I never thought it could,
and my mind is erotically surprised.
My only hope is to embrace my
new noncorporeal existence, but
it's futile. The very attempt
would make Sacher-Masoch proud but unhappy.