#stimulusinfinite

[zeroentity]

Four rooms. Four prisons of prisms. 

One may find themselves the subject, the objectification for a broadcast spectacle; the limbless, seductive cancer of a child’s spinal cord. Seething through the former yet present stages, the following four piece mental setting becomes a claustrophobic platform you may lack too well, perhaps confront in static heart pulses. It’s a reaction, a rejection and continual demand with a spinning sense of freedom of lack of control.

Retreating to the cave, someone must surely question the silence of stillborn sleep of our burning centre; subliminal...

[zeroentity]

STIMULUS INFINITE

[zeroentity]

I- Frontal

DOCTRINE OF PURGE

Go ahead with a purge of disease disembodied on cross or fear. Aged in a common sound of hierarchy, I looked a million years where you spawned a skinless witch; confirm your pleas. I’m too absorbed in habit, watchful from The Woods and a child must keep it’s muzzle intact when proceeding to me; I’m the night time prayer.

Relive like me, repent like blisters deserving from your stake of shame, it’s where the noose remains, pure and political; the truth to be believed. Can you carry the woes to the sky?

And some say that they feel cured where attached that I haven’t before a disgusted disciple weeps in a hole so emphatic with screams and denial and parts to assemble that bleed it; fantastic. In the moment and immoral to govern his pagan commands. I was told I’d never see them again; my other lie. 

You’ll try to gain ground, a step with the stench of your reforming cunt. When do your eyes feel nothing and feel the flames of heroine dreams? On the night that never was, I ;lost my threshold of conditional faith/love.

A realm together in the centre where we’ll burn. It stood amongst itself purging in a grasp by and for the moral god. A realm together in the centre where we’ll burn.

[zeroentity]

II- Parietal

SADIST CASE

Tales of feeble things on the cusp of depraved who only come undone like Father, like son. Deterred behind the chamber doors in the onslaught of rain can you feel yours eyes dilate at the salesman furnace smell. How high is your domain that we’re on the floor with an oral entry compulsion.

Sadist encased is the anointed day.

Dawned tremendous white leaving circumcision secrets but I never care to live alter bound. I’m newborn, stillborn; abstain and suppress- and we’re whole. Not another mouth in sight swallowing revulsion by his thick, second skin.

Touched at the seam and arise through instructions and impressions- with no surprise- catalyse the shape of my bones still tense and moist from foetal angels; your only fucking grievance- my hands.

Once you sin with virtue, be still for as cute as cancer imitations because I felt your libido swear to fuck it’s justification. Pray like a plaything, six sleeps of lies into lust, the end and where it begins.

Touched at the seam and arise. Touched at the seam and raising sadist encased; the anointed day.

[zeroentity]

III- Temporal

YESTERYEAR

Fixed for now; much to crave in states that rape. He and she surrounding me constantly but it’s come to wither with season and feel anew in the dark- it’s child’s flesh, seems to taste better than the rest and it won’t show. Maybe cocooned, you feed on what you fear but never know.

Walk someday; sometimes it eats it all away. I’m feeling my lucid fiend with fingers tied in rhetorical faces born to kill.

The terrestrial wired for trend- it’s only me; subliminal. The terrestrial hating what’s man- it’s only me; subliminal.

Time comes creeping in the window sleeping immediately; how I long for my limbs, not even deciphered blood in rhetorical faces to bore if I ever kill nothing again but fixed for now.

Hollow at the throat impersonations where they would rest and on the floor.

You’re fixed for now, pure to fade in days that rape; how can I let myself forget?

[zeroentity]

IIII- Occipital

MESSIAH BY SWASTIKA

You won’t feel this at breakneck speed where lies an abortion in paper form.

For my breath and all it’s false pretence- such fashion; I cover, not covet the world with bliss though it still feels like sin but be rid of Sibylline foreground, The Woods will always scar, come frail as we are in later years, a plague twice told. Everyone will swear but never again the sickness seeking control.

And you are free things with breakneck speed; continual abortions in paper form.

Strikes of meaning in the flesh and circa heavy heart makes usual consent to a pacifist with sacrilege strings; they’ll never let you be both endless and picturesque. I’ve had my turn to tease my ways with whiplash.

What fucking vile sleep- everything seemed so real with messiah colours cornered on a swastika where everything seemed so real.

Look up and I’ll pull you down where we must stay.