A poem begins with a lump in the throat

Thy worst. I fart at thee.

Thou art a dreaming thing,
A fever of thyself.

Death, thou shalt die.

Thou art to me a delicious torment.

I shall seize fate by the throat.

L'oubli puissant habite sur ta bouche,
Et le Léthé coule dans tes baisers.

Thy soul is by vile fear assailed

If I had a razor, I'd cut your throat — just to see what ran out of it.

A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.

I perceive I will die confected in the very stench of farts

Tu pleures, tant ta peine est grande,
Dans un désert, sans rien savoir…
Et moi, debout auprès du soir,
Je suis triste comme une offrande

Thou lov'st to speak in riddles and dark words.

How art thou out of breath when thou hast breath
To say to me that thou art out of breath?