The Song of the Cosmic Butcher
On my desk, lies a flayed pig.
Among cerulean fires I see quivering steaks, and sliced breasts.
— Frightful phalluses soar in the air ; streams of blood splatter the atmosphere.
In sun’s hollow a vulva glows, strange crack, stuffed with gold and bright blue.
On white bed, lies a pig’s head — Fresh lips blooming on cream and strawberry, and the taste of death.
A huge carnage erupts in my head — In my dreams I hear the ruddy laughter of eleven gutted girls — blank rage — sensory blast — when I sleep I often have my throat cut — in heavens I see slaughtered oxen and thick pale boobs full of pulp.
In moon’s hollow an anus gleams, stuffed with silver and gutted dreams.
Wide creamy hips among meringue and cherry, and pork tongue — high lactescent butts in filmy night, and spurts of lunar cum.
The moon swells and bursts, milk springs and spreads — in white sky, I see the carmine meat of sixty thousand boneless nymphs.
Through celestial darkness now appear quivering rump steaks, and sliced livers.
On my desk, lies a butchered girl.