gårdbuk: fantasy of dying lights (structured disasters)

vodka slosh and a get the fuck on with it then

hawking up a something or other rattle from lungs, brain busting in realtime coz if this can come crippled from speakers in nine minutes then this can stab onto page in nine minutes tout suite

and it’s all a mushed murk of disconnect,

a crumpled cigarette würming its way damply through the nicotine gauzed walls this charred racket’s been spewed up behind. perception fog-skewed so who knows if it’s a tongue oiled slick from corpsepaint in yr ear or a faraway shriek from a pit that’s as real as you need it to be

there’s

an off-kiltered latency, down wires the electricity’s a spectre and all voice buried way down like regret, huffing sea sick queasy, sliding greasy into us. a cacaphonic bark, dry as overfamiliar hands and gluey with folklore

there’s

a regurgitation, a pornographically familiar slather of guitar, but vomit scorched till equal parts factory, forest floor and soup; till that fucked symphony, clammy, pale and empty with bleed-out fever almost hits tone and texture

there’s

an emphasimic rattle of blastbeat, like a penny sucked up and chewing through machine parts. rhythm’s a corpse thud. rhythm’s a child’s toy in dog stomach. abstract and insidious, rubbed raw

try to grasp but slips away wetly, each schmeared hiccup tears an unknittable hole. that smoke’s burnt to filter, slug another, hit repeat, and

structured disasters

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