We are the weird and deformed things thought to be spied grubbing among the rubble. We haunt you, we invite you in to our carnival-festival, we menace your monsters, we harass your poltergeists. We eagerly want to shuck the shell from off your real skin and bones, we zestily come at you with sharp but rusty knives to cut that fester-scab off your exo-heart (inner but shown, known through body talk). Ah, the ripping PAIN! It's unavoidable. Receive it now not latterly. So we urge in urgent whispers unheard. Clickety, clickety, scuffle, shuffle, snuffle, slaver, cackle at the corners and edges of your mind, we creep on you from before and behind and under and over and inside-out and outside-in, beneath and upon your skin, knocking to get out of your skull and rap-rap-rapping to get in.
Revenge of the Sacred, 1973!
An entire life('s work) may well be a well-timed joke or wisecrack of theo-comedic Revenge on a world that rejects—an offhanded, sharp little retort with some biting but reconciliatory import. Who can say?