27 September, 2014

Sensory panic

Those who admire Sade and Bataille did not eat any excrement.

As for me, I swallow large gulps of cerulean shit 
drinking panic in flesh and solar blades 
my gut on sensorial nerve-breaking table

my skin stretched along a warm vomited afternoon
squeaky cartilage on the scarlet thread
dislocated rush
my erect bony body
on basal tremor
sensory marrow in primal flood.

And when I scream (frightening my neighbours)
I disgorge spurts of bright tortured beauty
ejected in mad gushes
on the silence of my stolid walls.

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