Flesh is silence, image by Younisos
Cut-up
on deep throat in the sky
cut !
cut it up
silent cum
sidereal throat
cerulean blowjobs
bits of howling melon
viscera on the horizon
wild murderous sausages
cruel schizophrenic rump steak
blind giant bone fucking the moon
Sharp
jissom
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
fringes
of
mud
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...
bones
of
all
sizes…
Bonesodomise yourself. That’s the path.
Amen
Mad
oranges
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
in quasars
unplugging your gleet circuits
smashed ego
creamy fibers of the wondrous anus
— juicy thigh kills the moon
rampant pears yelling /
dildo pulp / winged blood /
stormy hunger
flayed dreams
frank cliffs of fresh livers
— /
. /
...
milky girl
slit my glans
Untitled
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
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.
