Friday, 11 August 2017

Five Poems by David McLean

safe, Jennifer

you shall be safe one day we shall live our blood
our empty & love is together, meat
& dreams

this is shallow security, just what you feel
not reason; i shall touch you

& you shall obey me you are law
to me, freedom, dominant
is bondage

too; everything i say is to make you cum,
everything is to make you safe
to make you mine

too; & i give you me, forever, blood
& punishment, Jennifer,
come  to me

time, Jennifer

is appropriate & we count now
down, here our tomorrow
delineated more precisely

your insolent suffering
to touch you brutal, lover,
& we have this perversity

& callow understanding
our every absence, nothing
we live in & i have forest

for you, nipples & nonsense
this sterile reward, precisely
this history, i have pain

for you too, love & punishment.
& i shall hold you memory
forever, together forever

& world is madness
we do not need, impotent
language, we have flesh

intensity & earth; bodies
& meat we are, fingers
& inappropriate; we burn

Jennifer, world

the little girl Marx, offended by the perversity of the polymorphous body of capital, requires a great love

Jennifer, world is shoddy
answer, you wear night
& absence now, & we
are waiting

fists & fingers, love
enough to punish
meat we shall be,
together, memory,

a crippled dancer;
& there is love here
madness, you i see
come to me,

dominance, necessity,
& submission, soon
together, madmen
dancing blood

love in us, manic
slut i need you
freedom, cum
for me, meaning

is we

heaven, Jennifer

Out of the motherless cunt I shall make an obscure, total, obtuse and absolute soul
(Antonin Artuad)

i shall cultivate your motherless & disordered cunt to make us a terrible heaven, Jennifer, & we shall live there a hope & a broken soldier i shall hold you forever pinned & listening as we do the things the pervert does in us, love.

it is Artaud’s dead little girl who blows her horror into the legs of living girls her monstrosity you shall spread before me my murder, the dead we pledge our allegiance, empty meaning arrogant as your nipple is that i may destroy you better, makes yours the vaster heaven we both may dwell in as i slap the shit out of you so love turns into truth & bruises, everything necessary as pain is you ever wished.

whatever you swallow is my existence i shall make you cum till nothing exists for us, slut, nothing but the skin the meat we blood we touch & sprint is blatantly nonexistent, it drowns itself in the ditch dogs piss in as they celebrate flesh & the genuine foul breath &  the glorious filth that is living - & here we are the cunt, the cock, the balls the unforgivable stiff nipple.

we is one heart a genital death-wish & you shall torture me the stinging fingers of my hand to span the crack of your ass while you grin simpering humiliated ecstasy & trauma becomes oblivion i shall make nothing that ever happened really matter, not to me not to you; & you shall become my answer, i shall become your answer, we shall be the only answer: cum to feed on nipplefruit, there is history this & we are leaving.

& i shall lick my filth from you spreadeagled & tender a mercy hold your bruised flesh your glory your sex you shall before me, we shall worship the bruised & swollen cunt, the errant cock, for there is nothing more than the meaningless, the suffering patience of the intolerant flesh, that i love you more than sex or death & the world of the vanilla idiots is cum in the eyes of their forgotten god, every monstrous mother we have ever forgotten – memory murder the happy Apple of Sodom.

“under the tourniquet of pain”

So go on with your overblow of modest and  erotic tonguing, the modest orgasms of the middleclass
(Antonin Artaud)

bloodless poem, she said to me: “get butterfinger lube & more extravagant orgasms, consumption & inertia” because the revolution should scarcely be political for perverts “we have absence here, i tell you, Jennifer, & fucking bills to pay madness.” we dismember night the resident erection “our bodies are not filthy holes of blood the spirit washes its feet in & yet they are held by us disgusting” she tells me freedom, “pussy & the stench of pestilence”.

yet we have this courteous torture i would put up with nothingness enough, cake & sodomy romantic a memory, i wear you, Jennifer, a torn dress, a cozy psychosis - i need to look after you, i need to be you.

“it is what we do that creates us” she tells me “so we become cum & precum & what you eat of the bleeding, what you call meaning”.  i have straps & canes memory to paddle your ass my brutal beast, my beautiful dreamer, my revolting poem.

“we hurt because we love”, she says, “otherwise there would be mediocre nothing – big cock, tight cunt, no fucking.”


David McLean is from Wales but has lived in Sweden since 1987. He lives there with three dogs. In addition to various chapbooks & two novels, McLean is the author of eight full-length poetry collections. Four of these are from Oneiros Books and called NOBODY WANTS TO TO TO HEAVEN BUT EVERYBODY WANTS TO DIE (June, 2013), THINGS THE DEAD SAY (Feb, 2014), OF DESIRE AND THE LESION THAT IS THE EGO (May, 2014) & ZARA & THE GHOST OF GERTRUDE (Oct, 2014). The eighth is OF DESIRE & THE DESERT at Black Editions Press. Two novels HENRIETTA REMEMBERS (2015) & FLESH & RESURRECTION (2015) are also at Oneiros Books. 

Two recent chapbooks are also out Black Editions Press: PASSION IS DEAD FLESH & TOO MUCH HUMAN. A ninth full length is due from Antiseptic Press & called EMMA FOREVER. More information about McLean can be found at his blogs &

Wednesday, 9 August 2017

Excerpts from ninth iota by Irene Koronas


to preclude

poseidon fell on her 
fisted sister

his fondle call

her gird reek
the sidereal breast

drags customers with white gloves
pole dancers crow cock

gonads reemerge knuckle taught
yoke him over scorched film

tutelage cults graft for moral kill
titles torn drawn by chaste

shut in an empty tomb
she stabs herself

brooms the hole

to raise storms  
crouched in revelation

suckled by a shegoat
dead body myth

eaten by latin

himself a victim
cast in wool

balls ingratiate
further into her mouth

effeminate as deception
confuses her lewd

bauble of respect
on three walls

thread from lintel 
led to naxos

his toss
into her brass pot

demons cut his
ecclesiastic face


exculpate the loser
flesh lash and mutilation

hades sticking to cock

quake chain
the jaw monere  

a transfer hero
subservient to lust  


Irene Koronas is the author of 8 collections of poetry and collaborative writing including Codify, (Editions du Cygne, 2017) heshe egregore (with Daniel Y. Harris, Éditions du Cygne, 2016), Turtle Grass (Muddy River Books, 2014), Emily Dickinson (Propaganda Press, 2010) and Self Portrait Drawn From Many (Ibbetson Street Press, 2007). Some of her poetry, experimental writing and visual arts have been published in Clarion, Counterexample Poetics, Divine Dirt, E·ratio, experiential-experimental-literature, Lynx, Lummox, Of\with, Pop Art, Right Hand Pointing, Presa, The Seventh Quarry Magazine, Spreadhead, Stride and Unblog. She has exhibited her visual art at the Tokyo Art Museum Japan, the Henri IV Gallery, the Ponce Art Gallery, Gallery at Bentley College and the M & M Gallery. She is the Managing Editor and Co-Founder of X-Peri,

Tuesday, 8 August 2017

Excerpts from Carnal Flux and Sensory Slaughters by Younisos

Sensorial panic in the Medina

I did not meet any confirmed centipede in Tangier. My beast is the atrocious sweetness, pieces of female meat crawling all over my decaying walls. — A huge white bull jumped out of Café Fuentes balcony and landed on a busty ginger girl at the terrace of Café Central, crushing her delicate flesh and her shitty panini… The waiter, old sticky prick, licked the redhead's glowing lymph on the pavement, he swallowed his own ugly smile, and I turned off the show. — Drowsing in front of the facade that pukes dirty sunshine through my wide window, I wake up with sunny knives ransacking my neck. Bloody Danaé licks my bewildered dick while I'm cutting up the light. Murder blooms in the synapses of the sun. Carnal rapture is a spit on the white stellar massacre… diaphanous streams of cum streaking the Milky Way's ass.

Big pale boobs kill

The bright obviousness of a big pale breast brings up excess in obviousness itself.
We're done with books. Double dish of peas and the killing joy squirting through radioactive brains. I'm a carrion, more or less. Busty scarlet woman is the killer. Deadly bright tits destroy all rational thought (Bill just screwed the ginger boy). Sodomy is the tight blank fullness of silence. Big Bone is masterminding the next great aesthetic Butchery. Danaé will terrorise the keyboard and the verb. Her pale blinding boobs are cutting up human software. I'll sit and let carnal light break up heavens. The writer eats the blade as he can when mad sun shows up with silver giant dildos and tiny blank skirts.


... fill me with meat
squirt on my voracious bowels
shove your tits into the muteness
                                                        my ramshackle throat

cut me up
               swallow my bony verses
                                                   glorious sun is beneath my balls

Self-portrait by Younisos

Bio :

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.

Friday, 23 June 2017

Exergue XXIV by Daniel Y. Harris

Khôra’s femtocells are leptic at the ferrite core. She be sachem,
a darknet for anthroparions by Liber de Imaginibus. Hydraulic
episous and brisure frack the XKeyscore. Mass surveillance
            has its cocksling from PLECTERE. Jaws return 
their retromandibulars. Her sex is tabula AEILNORSTU. 
All enciphered messages have cubicles and rosa obscura 
heresies. L’usine de troc turns usé cri tonal into outils á soc. 
            Khôra has the casket: here, nude, art dares 
undecennary. A minor meeting, facile, delicate. Suck 
and carcerate. “Death by tissue rejection,” decrees King 
            DNAM. Next, gene protest in a chorus secundus.
What goblinry? Erase pain. Wood cubes swivel on wire 
axles. Huskerism requires symbiotes. Extreme gravity
for colonists in fishnet hose, or jugglery without regalia
            Imps shape their last gerechtigkeitsspirale. Line 436: 
printf(“[scanner] FD%d retrying with different auth combo!
\n”, conn->fd). Axed by his vocabularycleptic blade, Gregor 
            bloodies Khôra’s stub and Zero-G modifications. 
Her Jakob Böhme proxy defines mesostics as immobilized. 
She peeks at 124.5 petaFLOPS, a quintillion, 1018 floating 
point operations per second. Spiny insectoids squirt venom. 
Thinkpols cut WALL-E-like beings, or dry, sardonic Qs
from memristive circuits. Khôra names them Berzelius 
Windrips, her chief subordinates risen from their graves.
Pectin sets jam. Skin dip coats. Pit vipers hunt prey.  

 “Exergue XXIV” is from the manuscript, The Tryst of Thetica Zorg  


Daniel Y. Harris is the author of 11 collections of poetry and collaborative writing including The Rapture of Eddy Daemon (BlazeVOX, 2016), heshe egregore (with Irene Koronas, Éditions du Cygne, 2016), The Underworld of Lesser Degrees (NYQ Books, 2015), Esophagus Writ (with Rupert M. Loydell, The Knives Forks and Spoons Press, 2014) and Hyperlinks of Anxiety (Červená Barva Press, 2013) Some of his poetry, experimental writing, art, and essays have been published in BlazeVOXThe Café Irreal, Denver QuarterlyE·ratioEuropean Judaism, Exquisite Corpse, Kerem, The New York Quarterly, Notre Dame Review, In Posse Review, The Pedestal Magazine, Poetry Magazine, Poetry Salzburg ReviewStride, Ygdrasil and Zeek. He is Editor-in-Chief and Co-Founder of X-Peri,