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.
a thigh a thigh as it appears enlightened where the verb disappears into the muteness of the thigh abyss on silence and screams bloom in skin and curves through azure steaks and sliced breasts are quivering sidereal dissolution into bowels chaos of light spouting fury meaty colour shut up forget about psychoanalysis destroy screens withdraw your eyes from the swarm of speech be silent I planted the fork in the thigh and blood spurted three large scarlet drops on pale flesh three red rivulets that I savoured on the thigh with my tongue in bright flowing delight the pale obscenity of a smooth ass brightens my intimate atrocity in my glowing skull the light (suffused with crime) strips off the ultimate meat a thigh a thigh the sensory killing sings in sharp twists and quiet night lying through placid milk