I think the word 'Metallagenic' would be most appropriate.

The dust of years has covered up the photos on my desk here. We have waited for the death of cliché and it still does not come. The passion, which affects most of us, is rooted in cliché and will always be so. You think that you can change the world by writing something original but like guitars we will always return to songs about love and stories about love and poems about love. And of course love is the end of the death of cliché, for love comes from the past where life was simpler. Let's face it, even the best writers, the coolest stars of the literary world, turn into idiots when they fall in love.

You say that you have never fallen in love and we can believe you. You are probably getting annoyed about the lack of acute accents at the end of the very word you claim to hate. We write what we see. Sylvia Plath wrote all those detailed observations of the peeling paint on the pipes behind the sink in some room she stayed in - in Paris I think. What is the small gap that separates the best from the worst? Some tiny concept makes something original. She was of course just exercising and we would never criticise someone for a diary, which they thought no one would ever read.

And so we turn over and look the other way. The wind steals our voices and we are silent in the storm. 1976 was when we started to understand you completely, a poetic giant in a world of silence and tat. It was your freshness that blew away all other attempts to usurp your father's position. We did not know of your paternity then but the tragedy of your life has gradually revealed this to us. How can you take the language you were born with and make it something so different from its basic purpose? Language is for requesting food or shelter or sex and yet, in your dimly lit visions of the world in which we all live, you have turned English around, faced it into the wind, sucked it in and spat it out until it becomes an instrument of deity, the very thing that God would have needed to start this universe on its way.

The chasm I sense between the first word of this sentence and the next is not evident when you read it but the pity and despair it builds inside me creates a moment which you must be able to sense across the gap between now and then. We are creating a new grammar to determine a new form of writing. We will build a new language with the very words we are using now and yet it will go beyond love until it has taken us all away from the dread and pain that language is for today. We will love our lives and love God as we love the possibilities of new language. We write in meta-language, describing everything with fewer and fewer words until we can say anything with a glance or a sigh. The world will end and begin again.

I crawl back after poetry has died and fall to earth with you, an angel taking me, not dead, to perfect heaven from all these trials. An end we seek will never come; will simply leave you watching for the signs of it. Do you want to spend you whole life nervous of the shadows and the trees. My childhood ghosts lived in those trees and sucked in the light until the whole wood was dark and shadowed with the breath of monsters and of those humans that I hated. We were heroic then; children dressed as warriors, knights and soldiers for the good of good, beatific females at our sides and fighting evil with us until the enemy was sent home in buckets and ash-boxes. Sweet Joan showed us where she met the Saints and never dreamed of matching them in stature. I am scared upon the woodpile; they dare not burn me for my God will come and save me. I catch the eye of some scared soldier as he glances, horrified at me. I ask him for a cross, which he makes roughly with his sword, a symbol of our God to prove to me that I am not forsaken. He hands it to me and briefly touches my fingers and feels love conducted down through me to him. His sword, already drawn turns quickly through the air, decapitates his Captain and lieutenants with an arc of beauty. I am taken up and carried gently to the ground unburned. We will not die today. We will pray and plead for and end that never comes.