Jeg faldt lige over det her vildt fede digt af P. Inman - nemlig A Visit with Rilke:
Two hundred years of Chinese poetry are rotting on the table & no one even cares. They're too busy roping their hair together & dancing, their arms like vine forever reaching for the ceiling. I can feel their crimes accumulating inside my chest. Their lights burn like stale zodiacs. The air glows. A hole drills itself through the roof of my head & the stars pour into me like cereal. Rilke, sitting in a bath full of roses says: "What can I do for you, prick?"
De der sammenligninger er for vilde! "the stars pour into me like cereal", "dancing, their arms like vine" samt "their lights burn like stale zodiacs". Og så er jeg vild med den der virkelighedsfjerne fortæller der sidder og er sur over en grotesk flok benægtere af kinesisk poesi. Indtil stjernehimlen bliver hældt i hjernen på ham som havregryn, og Rilke kommer og skælder ham ud. Spot on!