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?