underground writer in Interzone / Carnal experimental poetry

Posts tagged “writer

The Song of the Cosmic Butcher

On my desk, lies a flayed pig.
 
Among cerulean fires I see quivering steaks, and sliced breasts.
 
— Frightful phalluses soar in the air ; streams of blood splatter the atmosphere.
 
In sun’s hollow a vulva glows, strange crack, stuffed with gold and bright blue.
 
On white bed, lies a pig’s head — Fresh lips blooming on cream and strawberry, and the taste of death.
 
A huge carnage erupts in my head — In my dreams I hear the ruddy laughter of eleven gutted girls — blank rage — sensory blast — when I sleep I often have my throat cut — in heavens I see slaughtered oxen and thick pale boobs full of pulp.
 
In moon’s hollow an anus gleams, stuffed with silver and gutted dreams.
 
Wide creamy hips among meringue and cherry, and pork tongue — high lactescent butts in filmy night, and spurts of lunar cum.
The moon swells and bursts, milk springs and spreads — in white sky, I see the carmine meat of sixty thousand boneless nymphs.
 
Through celestial darkness now appear quivering rump steaks, and sliced livers.
 
On my desk, lies a butchered girl.
 
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Meaty pixels — Excerpt from the forthcoming book of Younisos

tits
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

anal flux
vanishing in flabby whining
over ramshackle gallbladder

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Creamy carnage — Excerpt from the forthcoming book of Younisos

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.

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