amanda r. howland: mona cost returns to canton (chocolate monk)

man it’s hot enough to melt skin and plastic and steel beams and fuck me are scottish atoms not meant to endure such broil, reducing me to a plash of squint and groaning mulch.

hunkered down, windows open, a howl of sunlight busts through like a goddamn fist.

and this snaffled bit, i chow down on.

reeks of basement and a broken 3am.

it smacks of disheartened, distended, disconnected. vomited against next door’s walls, shrieking through the wet gyprock.

a charred racket, screwed by fog. electricity down long-distance telephone wires. a quarter speed of nebulous fucked symphony.

what vocals there are, buried cellar deep. what music there is, strangled at birth.

just noise. a just noise. anonymous. isolated. an insidious smother. everything cataracts blurry. an occasional textured, schmeared bleed drips out milky lens.

and still this heat…

milk’s soured, and all is thick and clotted. soupy sheets of miasmic fuzz clinging and my flesh is a damp shroud and this din an exulted funeral.

lissssen, let’s say a beautiful, jarring (de)composition and agree to let me lie here and dissolve into this harsh soft smudged space.

coz in the end we’re all rot. like always. like never.

chocolate monk

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