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.
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
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.
pixels… rotting slowly in the sky
aborted androids connected to anti-plasma networks
synapses of horror… sodomizing the stem cells of encrypted fate —
binary decay algorithm jerking off on HTML plans
valid anal code
along rectal vortexes…
… Mary’s butt is looking at me
black cockroaches announce the blind name of the toxic fetus
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.
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
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.