the last stand in paradigmatic passion

A: a pump the particles past this speed of light. tachyons will tell us of nails driven pre-vi hammer's swing notes sing samsara in thickness, reverse cause effecting.

B: bring these things, to abbey's doors, screaming scratching heretic on bones.
to tear this, filth from skin, of non question asking are you ready? are you ready to die?

C: revolving door, in, out the next, ask me what i'm looking for; it.
rather do i mean am i seen by such opposing eyes? such an opposing mind?

=: ask open, ended, questions, on open

=: these are bruise tattoos from fingers of fists driven in to palms in philos sophia fits. straight jacket laced up around "I" waist
i wait for time to come
"hollow screams" and hollow "me" and hollow dreams of "nothing"

A: a passion filled waxlet of glorious sensation on my skin begs a question, philos sophia infection, half truths, are they ok? are they alright? rather do i mean am i seen by such opposing eyes?

B: purge the skin, with intent, to wind and, wash the flesh, in atonement. the bondage wraps, paper concepts. truth is needle rendered anesthetic.

C: revolving door, in, out the next, ask me what i'm looking for it.
rather do i mean am i seen by such opposing eyes? such an opposing mind?

transfiguration of a senseless man

this sliver pallet of air holds it in the 2-3 dimensional, own most essential
metaphysical bending of a picture
a mirror bending literature
a figure, salivation at both ends
hungry for what's never been
the regal single tear of after sense
but this dripping bold of "black"
cast on canvass backs of life before just that
transfigures metaphysics of seeing-site and picture interconnectedness never otherwise
for it is the after life that brings duality apparatus experience

tear the flesh off the man
in hopes for sense perception
as control, as void, for metaphysics experiments
as ironic bits of realization as essence
come myself to the oracle's pitch. but then,
i'm told that this i've already found.

conversation with an oracle

now i know what the void of passion feels like. passion being the sensation of accomplished connectedness with the unhindered passion, love, heart, beauty, and weeping tears of what is coming to be all-fruiting in one single moment. as if having looked parallel to the ground for my entire existence only to look down and in that bending of light away from the cave wall, so being enowned as the gathering point for all beauty, love, passion that can ever exist and does inevitably in the only present that matters, my unending boundedness to now. this thing without beginning or end. this non-thing. this wordless. this timeline goes on infinitely in both directions. all directions. now. not ever. not never. soul wrenching fury gathering and absorbing, gathering and absorbing, gathering and absorbing as the sense apparatus and the abounding world of furious emotion unifies; literally unifies itself with the self.

this is a passionless void. this is what i've thought of time after time. the pain of being without sensation. yes, this is ironic. i think even more so now that i feel as though i might understand it. it is now that i write without thinking very much at all. wondering, paining over what makes sense to be called practical impermanence. beautiful excitement of new love and a new friend, and what maybe i don't know, might be the unending pain of a void of happiness as a result. where is my grounding in all of this? if there is a god, what has happened to me? and if it is not too filled with ridiculous purpose, why? if not, then i address this to reality, to which i am inevitably bound. bring me to the oracle. to the soul opening burst of light and enownedness as the gathering. come myself to the oracle's pitch. but then, i'm also told that this i've already found.