Writing is abject… it’s jerking off with your own lymph, stinking viscera, fatty gall … curdled petrified guts winding along cracked ribs, sneaking into the ass … intimate verbal butchery ending in rectal trip, and all the split carcass along the vertebrae and the gaping entrails under the sun finally shredded in fresh tremor on December’s shivering cobblestones.
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 ?…
— 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 —
horror — is nothing — my bowels per se — had razors at lunch — horror — nothing — blank sun — iced virtual fuck — my liver — frozen — snatched breath — squeezed red cells — blowing off the dark sap of my plasmatic silence
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 ?
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