Wurst

It's having words creep underskin and, one by one, lift all nerves to the outer rim, with every nick of their perfect white teeth teasing the vein that feeds flesh from braincell dejects - and Freud kneels down fore Oedipus, both hands clutching the bulbs still warm and moist like self-repressed desire.


I've come from youngster York and gone off to the Nordsee: gist of it. More later on.