john godbert: the sealed container (chocolate monk)

yeah i’m dancing, what of it?

a shuffling arms around head whirligig as this atonal sonorous drone takes me by the feet, and envelops. a semi-cognitive gut sound, numbing / healing body function, induces disassociation, tendrils into consciousness.

how it begins?

stripped bare. music for church. unchurch music. music for john donne. a zig-zag of superlunary keys and strings. disorientation. (dis)connect. i feel as close to god as godbert.

looking to the skies. celestial, not as a deep empty ambient hoom, but spiritual bodies moving, working against / together, flesh knitted to bone, filaments stretching from inner to outer space. undulating beneath the clamour, it builds. atoms fizzing.


it’s here.

garage keys schmeared by a minor squall of horn. a theatre of eternal music, inciting soul-uplift and corporeal beatdown. a noise to get lost in.

i’m still jigging to this sensory ostinato. it’s not a nagging heartbeat but an endless flutter, that leaves you on edge, trance-substantiating with one engorged clamour played out as ritual. a sartorial intensity. let’s say: jean genet to la monte young.

and after this sensory blowout? states altered, a drained bacchalia, black-mirrored, sucked sucked sucked of pleasure.

let’s ask, what’s the sound of one drunk waltzing?

chocolate monk

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