innuit & ssayan

Photo Sonia Heloïse

innuit is wired by interstices on nothingness, the tail stretched in a pre-autistic effort to reach the relational humanity, zigzagging between the plates, speech bubbles, balls of vacuum which over-float into its anthropocosmic matter. innuit, is a man of void, some kind of emptiness (emptying?) of the projective human universe but not only that, intended to feed the narcissistic embryo with a lot of anthropomorphic pumping, trunking of otherness’s juice in an infinite quest for the identity to self-exist; to feel, palpate, knead, fiddling its intangible animic structure, innuit connects himself to the human creatic groundwaters, placental entities able to retain some of his flux and channel it in a form, via the pink hose in charge to suck the life in all its necklines.

Making love with innuit, it’s touching the inter-staggering, the abysmal absence, the shreds of my Skin-Ego of an anguishmal crust: no surreptitious return in-between arrivals in play where The I isn’t required.
With innuit, the junction point with the other is unilateral, imperious, tyrannical.
If innuit connects the other, the other does not connect him. innuit bamboozles, Hourloupes, he probes, penetrates, drills and impacts, but nothing in the affected being can allow the healthy bonding, the stabilisation. The relationship is an ab-rrelationship, in a despairing and desperate parallelism: freedom is not playable, no one can escape the pink line that traps the author out or…
The eros is aborted in this a-prolific endeavour to belong to the world: eternal damnation from an almost human engaged on the fringes of his substance, which will only leave from his solitude by the abandonment of an individualistic orbiting for benefiting of an innovative wiring to the alter ego carrying another line.

In this case only innuit will become a man, humanised, immunised against himself.
The ssayan’s line, ventral and foul-mouthed, looks for the junction with that of innuit.
More than eros, the innuit’s line is rose, erectile and hostile to any attempt of neuRosic approach. To know the eros, you have to be eroic and to go on a crusade to a combinatory where the libertine ego fights for it with a proven virgin-whore abnegation.
Ultimately, accepting to go a part of the way to somewhere and push innuit to complete the other one.

ssayan will rummage in her belly until arcanas, daubing innuit’s entrails to find her line, fire line, blood line: that of the woman to give birth to The Man and that of The Man to give birth to The Woman.
I hope they manage together to get red of the arid self-centre of the incomplete innuit, for tinting it with ssayan’s wine, to shake and warm up, until the implosive boost, the thanatic big worm which bubbles quietly and lazes it around in its own veins, between his balls; reptilian fistula that freezes the palpitations of their love by ugly and ineffable irregularities.

For you Sylvain Essayan Paris I’ll go get in your tripes, in my trips, my line, malignant excrescence that must be extirpated to be extended to the outside.
Drawing another bridge like a vast standard, voluptuous rainbow, between you and me, between you and the world, ecstatic sexuality, pas de trance and pas de deux; insert the equation which opens an in-between: a more sensual and sensitive equatoriality of your beautiful jungle Rrose.



Bon innuit les petits !
(French for Night-night children!)
Sylvain Paris