Bataille, pale genius of the perverse, visits not
In dreams, but in thought-pegasi, things that are not.
Earth: a sacred temple, godless and unbuilding,
Cooking consciousness into something it is not.
Happy-sad scholars exhale singularity,
This impossible, ordinary thing, or not.
Facticity is God, shouts tell-it-like-it-is,
Insisting on saying a thing saying cannot.
The profoundest temporariness of each thing
Is an unkissed kiss, sublime perfection and not.
Ancient stones also bathe daily in their own blood,
Bound by necessity to be what they are not.
The shock, the horror could not be greater, and still
Nicola finds breath, ecstasy where they are not.