Getting familiar with my own thin corpse… cadaverous flux beating along the writing process… kissing the goddess Rottenness in the mouth.
Anguish blooms on the dew of breath, when afternoon is nothing : sensory fullness… diaphanous blades stroking void… and my damn real guts shredded by nothing… atrocious plenitude of flowing nothingness. Cold tits on the horizon.
— When horror is off, you still swallow the horror of breathing.
These whining cats under my window in the warm night… like some doomed babies in a bad zombie movie…
I brought my rotten big toe to the doctor. He said : « They say you’re a cut-up writer…isn’t it ? … so… go on… cut off your damn toe !… antibiotics don’t work on writer’s flesh… your damn dismembered mind is infecting the air… go screw yourself with your meaty writing… cut off your fucking toe and put it down in your poetic carnage… »
Flux oozing its flat warm scum through doomed big toe while I embrace the cadaverous edges of my bones, savouring the ongoing plasmatic decay.
My body is getting bony, so bony… Few flesh left…
My writing comes up from the bone marrow, bled… dried up soon… That would be the price to pay for being a carnal poet… skeletal ?…
Words are dead pigs on the slab. I’m done. Only blank void can fill the visionary gut. Non eatable giant steaks are bloodying my digital corpse. Writing makes my brains puke the sap of inner cannibal urge. Shit and love and round flesh trickling down through the asshole of agonizing fate.
Daylight is a corpse, nothing more than a corpse.
— My throat is weak, I said. My esophagus pissing blood on the blank page, ignoble online cake puking digital rosaries … um … the universe is a big obscene pie —
brainless blast squeezing sharp bones crushing glowing livers / logical red foam / I doze / split azure / singing on black mire / oblong eager pig
my ode to phallic bleeding joy
as big Bone pops in heavens
raping cosmogonist tits disconnecting your narcissistic circuits / rotting ego in juicy butt radiating steel dripping creamy dreams of infinitesimal anus cleaving golden skulls tearing my brain through fresh casts upon killing sweetness / drawing carmine jets / large schizoid knives
bits of howling viscera on blue skinned horizon / earwigs puking silver cockroaches / crippled throat
mind has to be shred / bursting the helpless eyes of the empirical world surging lightning curves to slash chronic nonsense and other rancid hopes cranking strings of guts over scarlet rivers
quartered satin thighs / wild pubic dreams kill stripping moon and make it spit its stillborn milk / legs slipping / fresh cracked ass
unbridled fury of … large eggs / winged sap blank slots and plump cherries while foul cerulean sky pours its atrocious light on hungry oranges
fluffy rectums purring at the bottom of other creamy roundness and
heady saliva of
schizo ginger girl
pancreatic cancer rings once
just say bye bye and rot in peace /
anal-galactic intercourse doesn’t wait /
one more time they crucified Dionysus in Wall Street and they stuffed his eyeballs with semiconductors /
the blue-eyed butcher refreshes his cock in skimed milk but I’m expecting more beheaded dolls on the run /
between the lines
how can I clean up all that blood
Connection is rotting,
pouring its pixeled fever into the bowels of global death.
Breath is decaying
— Google is puking the void
of its dark cum.
leads the blank becoming
Tits and butt will take you online
to the algorithm
of your own corpse.
Bowels stretched on the verb — bowels cut up for the sake of the blank enlightened cadaver of wailing prose — my sweet liver, raped in the hardened crypts of deep east…
Bowels, torn, sheared in blind deaf images… only viscera could flow in scarlet silence — breath perpetuates the agony that pierces the pancreas of the flux — cancer and lust are sodomizing each other deep in dawn around the Wi-Fi substratum of death.
Images are dripping…
Cancer is coming, soon…
Cyber-mushrooms puke their mad fuchsia sap in the ears of crippled desire.
— Sophisticated civilization disgorges the most rotten meats.
I have no smartphone. Death is coming, baby…
Digital infection invades the flux, huge abomination… putrescent, crawling larvae, chips and microchips swarming in pus.
Where is my cock ?
Solar vertical forces are swallowed by slugs, worms and virtual octopuses.
Why don’t you slay me, baby ?
square bone gushes on the mangled edge of darkish spatters while smooth whores wail and writhe in the woods my TV died of testicular cancer shiny tits illusion sparkles around synthetic mountains through the holy sleep the big toe survived the plague and now it’s squirting words of milky wisdom and black crackling cum the square jaw has come
sensual anxiety puking its fuchsia gall on the final pie of sidereal panic
slit human spleen
drowsing in a silver bag
cold lymph shower
on the back of the three dicks beast
cut off my toe NOW
pixeled soporific artifact
gelding the slack eye of void
immanence lies on butchery freshness
crowds of fetuses
agonising on the edges of meaty cliffs
shredded squishy tongues dripping beneath the crude erection of becoming
vanishing in flabby whining
over ramshackle gallbladder
on the blank abyss
of my balls /
gutted foamy anguish stroking the hanged carcass of
glowing through sticky brain molasses /
sensual anxiety shitting its fuchsia gall on the final cake of sidereal panic /
vital beat is raping
I might doze, right ? Railwaymen, brats, the sky — fuchsia bitchiness… Pissing on her thick hair and wide watery eyes. My cock cleanly cut, in the fridge. Banana spurted in the dark screaming at rectal attitude, disgorging streams of unspeakable reddened lymph, heart sap of the last laryngeal jerk. Long sausage gleaming beneath the knife. Bowel’s skin. Under the frail tangent of gutted Eros I stretch sparkling viscera along the crackling vomit of a mad alto sax. Free jazz sharpens my canines. Vaïna crawling on the lookout for poetic performances… she ended up impaled on the edge of bony glans. Ornette Coleman blessed her thigh filet sizzling on the grill. I puked two large bundles of erotic marshmallow, two milky girls sliced on the sensory block of the dying pudding. — As you like ladies, I’m always available for any ax and legs routine. Voracious. I never get enough meat for my thirsty marrow… Huge cream pies haunting the arterial roads of the day.
cut it up
bits of howling melon
viscera on the horizon
wild murderous sausages
cruel schizophrenic rump steak
blind giant bone fucking the moon
We’re done with books. Double dish of peas and the killing joy squirting through radioactive brains. I’m a carrion, more or less. Busty scarlet woman is the killer. Deadly bright tits destroy all rational thought (Bill just screwed the ginger boy). Sodomy is the tight blank fullness of silence. Big Bone is masterminding the next great aesthetic Butchery. Danaé will terrorise the keyboard and the verb. Her pale blinding boobs are cutting up human software. I’ll sit and let carnal light break up heavens. The writer eats the blade as he can when mad sun shows up with silver giant dildos and tiny blank skirts.
of flayed oxen
glowing in broken sensory flows
streams of beheaded redheads
pouring in the gray sluice of my torn skull
six hundred cold knives standing up in lunatic sheaves through the fiery dawn
flood of tender thighs
milky blindness around morning light
and my brains
unctuous atrocious brains
licking the blade of tenderness
on sawn skulls —
erect bone breaking up heavens
puke their meaty screams
on lymphatic aphonia —
stillborn green sky
crippled fractal twisted smash
in ionic cracklings
slicing the synaptic song
of dismembered aesthetics —
bony phallic killing
of blind limpid sky,
a huge flayed ox
under the red rain
and throws it to the Maenads of the Web.
shits her milk
on the slaughterhouses
falls down on a nightclub
full of round skinned thighs …—
a huge flayed ox
crushing the tender breasts
of my slashed milky girl.—
guts torn along alleys darkened by howler assassins warm heart snatched gray wall agony sawn neck dazed blade rusty dull my entrails on the table sheared light drilled multiple vertical crack slow impalement walking through the cut-throat street broken ribs hoping for some headless glow cracking the cartilage of the spear yelling loud twirling blinding furious cock singing upcoming murders licking sweet thighs killer Bone gleaming biting hilarious rump steak blood mixed with fresh brains spattered on Mary’s cleavage the artist is not an ego she went home licking her own tits that’s my skull “the-flow-flows” could coincide with : SILENCE
Younisos is in the CUT UP Anthology
My contribution, “Self Cut-Up in Tangier“, is a bloody cut-up on my own texts.
My contribution, Self Cut-Up in Tangier, is a bloody cut-up on my own texts.