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.
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