a radical blade extends its iced platinum
on sawn skulls —
erect bone breaking up heavens
puke their meaty screams
on lymphatic aphonia —
stillborn green sky
crippled fractal twisted smash
and my frightened glands
in ionic cracklings
slicing the synaptic song
of dismembered aesthetics —
bony phallic killing
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
The obvious is atrocious.
Horror is life itself
warm knives in the sluggish night.
… … …
Bowels stretched on the verb — bowels cut up for the sake of the blank enlightened cadaver of wailing prose — my sweet liver, raped in the hardened crypts of deep east…
Bowels, torn, sheared in blind deaf images… only viscera could flow in scarlet silence — breath perpetuates the agony that pierces the pancreas of the flux — cancer and lust are sodomizing each other deep in dawn around the Wi-Fi substratum of death.
We cling to writing… trying not to end up in such naked misery… but misery catches up with you, and horror too.
Suddenly, poetry is over. It goes away to squirt elsewhere. The day is naked. Raw anxiety. Horror flows free, straight. Daylight splatters my face and I die by breathing.
For horror is life itself, flowing…
Warm blade in the throat of the night.
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 ?
square bone gushes on the mangled edge of darkish spatters while smooth whores wail and writhe in the woods my TV died of testicular cancer shiny tits illusion sparkles around synthetic mountains through the holy sleep the big toe survived the plague and now it’s squirting words of milky wisdom and black crackling cum the square jaw has come
sensual anxiety puking its fuchsia gall on the final pie of sidereal panic
slit human spleen
drowsing in a silver bag
cold lymph shower
on the back of the three dicks beast
cut off my toe NOW
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
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
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
My contribution, Self Cut-Up in Tangier, is a bloody cut-up on my own texts.