waiting to be inspired

...There are instances when I finally loose myself, moments where the narration in my head ceases, my ego stripped away, myself left bare and empty, filled anew with the words replanted from the page to my soul, bypassing translation and becoming fact, becoming me, filling my veins and capillaries with something new, something that I can stomach, something yet cancerous. That is why I read, for these infrequent transcendent moments where I find my foot tapping out some chthonic and primal rhythm, my body rocking in step, hovering over the page drinking it straight to my blood. Sadly, I find very little in current prose or poetry that fills this need. Recommendations to the contrary are welcome.