Flesh is silence, image by Younisos
Cut-up on deep throat in the sky
cut it up
bits of howling melon
viscera on the horizon
wild murderous sausages
cruel schizophrenic rump steak
blind giant bone fucking the moon
My own corpse is the path, translucent pattern of the bold paranoiac egg. Licking it
brings the absolute filth to any abstract steak.
Gutted nymphs crossing the street under the bright ax of aesthetics.
— Mister Giant Steak slaughters Vaïna in the sunshine.
mobs of condoms… beaded panic
Huge butchery deployed on sixty six bald continents. Millions and millions of bodies,
bled, flayed, boned... — Fresh pearly bones, super bony dildos, entirely organic dildos...
Bonesodomise yourself. That’s the path.
six furious lemons
cervicals crushing the algorithm
sweet guts sleeping in pyretic clouds
humming black mud's smile — greedy pig
my ode to killing joy
unplugging your gleet circuits
creamy fibers of the wondrous anus
— juicy thigh kills the moon
rampant pears yelling /
dildo pulp / winged blood / stormy hunger
frank cliffs of fresh livers
... milky girl
slit my glans
How could I sodomize the light ?
Is there any enlightened delirious ass, out there, on the edge ?
Pale cannibal Danaé just slaughtered Clotilde, ate her fresh liver, and lay on my
ramshackle bed, showing off that round milk-white butt.
At Obaoba, female flesh tastes like sweet corpses...
My shattered skull licking the sidereal bosom.
Just come and suck my marrow... only aesthetics will bleed me to death... I'm all sugar
for your twisted thirst... my liver going wild on the tongue of the final sensory
spectrum. Obaoba was a nightclub in Tangier, packed with fresh curvy meat.
Hideous fetus surging roaring stridulating in warm juicy night.
The universe is a big obscene joke, dismal rubbish, ridiculous... a scarlet little beast
yelling inside the fridge. My trembling bones squirt carnal cut-ups when they perceive
the roundness of Danaé's butt ——
A giant sausage moves on, crawling on the milky edge of our pulpy galaxy.
The asshole of the Milky Way is not a black hole, no... it's a big big real fleshy
anus, and it gets sodomized by bony silence.
Younisos writes what he calls “carnal experimental poetry.” He is the author of Carnage Sensitif, in French; and is now looking for a publisher for his new book in English: Carnal Flux and Sensory Slaughters. He lives in Tangier.