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.
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.
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