Look!
The inverted eyes!
A cut out in numinous motion (a particle of the void instilled within to carry the pneuma that lies beyond pleroma).
Look, blind fool!
Much is yielded from a simple glance (one of the seventh signature, to a fullness that consumes, a liquefaction of the origins through inertia moving peepholes).
Yawning heights, blessed be their names, arches of exultant space, blades of bloom capturing the salt of God at the foot of the pillars of graciousness.
As above, so below: Iao!
Sabaoth!
Astaphanos!
Carrying the ogdoad.
Ialdabaolth!
Adonais!
Elaios!
That which lies low lives high, that which devours also gives.
Those who believe revere the Void.
Lord of the Abyss, Pro-Pater, the one whose absence consecrates this world with libels of soil and Eucharist of genital dust.
A pallid sign, a bleeding face: you shall learn a true baptism is yet to come.
Your skin will be turned inside out, while needles molest your baptismal blood.
Theophanic sigils pervade your mess, bubbling amidst the festering strains of menstruation.
Yawning praying meat.
