Kenji
Siratori:
a Japanese cyberpunk writer who is currently bombarding the internet with
wave upon wave of highly experimental, uncompromising, progressive, intense
prose. His is a writing style that not only breaks with tradition, it
severs all cords, and can only really be compared to the kind of experimental
writing techniques employed by the Surrealists, William Burroughs and
Antonin Artaud. Embracing the image mayhem of the digital age, his relentless
prose is nonsensical and extreme, avant-garde and confused, with precedence
given to twisted imagery, pace and experimentation over linear narrative
and character development. With unparalleled stylistic terrorism, he unleashes
his literary attack. An unprovoked assault on the senses. Blood Electric
(Creation Books) was acclaimed by David Bowie. His first CD now available.
http://www.kenjisiratori.com
strange
god
Placenta
world of clone boys: the digital=apocalypse is inoculated....the
nano-machinative body system of the drug embryo: the junkie silence
gimmick girl of TOKAGE the speed of the end of the world I copy
the reproduction gland brain of the ADAM doll: a/the film-contact:
the body fluid matrix of an ant that dances.... Blue of the sky
Green pupil The uncivilized brain of clone boys is infectious to
the night sky of the desert. ::myself to something that is not seen
is reflected there. I rape [the sun like the ADAM doll that respires
the nightmare of the amniotic fluid mechanism of clone boys era
so]. To be jointed the vagina of the gimmick girl as if the brain
area of the dog fuck........resolves it in the savage soul-machine....heaven
of the drug embryo [The sex machine of a dog. Silence They say I
sodomize my days and works of hands but they cannot even wait and
watch my sunsets across your ample breasts dark purple and acrid
as the years have gone by... They don't even have a word to say
about my return from abroad sweating stammering and afraid and the
stormy afternoon when we made one another and you were so violently
sick and bloody that I'd to even hand out your white napkin that
turned red as the sun turned red in Calcutta my beloved and my desolation...
they don't know anything and yet they dare say I sodomize my days
and works of hands applying cream across your arm pits applying
litany to my sorrows applying vodka to one of my final visits to
Bengal's poetry churches... tell me my sonny shall I dare sing hey
nonny nonny hey and returneth as I must from dust to smirking dust? |
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