By Jack Colton and Amos Damroth
Philly nights, Philly lights, it all seems the same to those of us who have braved the depths, and come back to the surface to put our musical talents on display for the separately persuaded denizens of one of America’s greatest cities.
My name is Hagog. I, talon by talon, crawled my way up the cracks of this plate tectonic global lobular nothingness. Sharpie marks tally the scrapes and scars that mark my body’s ascent to civilization. Upon reaching open air the blades from my back bloomed to immense bat wings and I flew, for first time. Lights, in colors I had not perceived for eons, peered out to me from their nesting places. Before me Americana expanded. I landed first in Philadelphia.
This place reminded me closely of homeland depths. I could recall the scent of sulfuric acid pools and the nightly smog hovering with scent of alcoholic bile water spilled from digestive tubes, gargle, splash, homeland memories. Stalking the back streets of this illuminated man-home, I found brethren. Their stench called to me from miles across the urban sprawl, the stench of fried-fat, blood gullies, and both parts-transfused. Both A-and-B sexuality hum.
Father danced in their eyes. Reflection of body hip sway in cigar smoke atmosphere, dropped slugs on dance floor tap tap boom bass shake. Our instruments are flesh, unbound. Torn from the mold of latter-age serum-tasters, we ass-shook and hand-clapped ad infinitum.
From afar a man with cinder black singed skin puffed through tail end of brass serpent, flowing from esophagus gulch trough. We shook ideas, we spoke violently, sermonized silence when man-folk wandered through. He said the name of his tongue was “saxophone”. My feet cried with desirous movement, urination.
Who was this kindred death warden? Friar Phallus, and yet not. So appeared the language that he bespoke. Sudden memories of black plague village crumbling under falling ash and shook by the dirt of a thousand dead peasantry. Screams of yellow skinned boil bellied women and pus washed former artisans. I began to laugh.
Cinder man responds in similar manner. Who is this brother fellow?
I speak, “allow me to sing as you”
He speaks, “Hey man, show me how you groove”
I reserve that the cat’s got moves. Moves of ancient rituals calling back the tattered frames of Tartarus, I remember them. Impressed yet? Hell yes.
“But can you fill the building?”
“Both types right?”
“One type, swings both ways”
I shimmy over to the song receptacle and exempt myself from haggard silence. Devil’s plume winglets shake in step with polyrhythmic symphonic sexual bluegrass quiver out the end of my extension.
Breathe deep. Stick tail to tongue and blow. Sounds of bipedal hellhound disco corrupted with former decades delirious dead, so does it seem. But here, here I see many, what do you call, men. Shaking in black leather slick reflecting jackets with hats covering (what would be there?) horns? They let members hang, dismembering the tension that floated pre-performance. Pre-existence. We shout, we slap, we beat, we pluck. We exist.
All beings dance around artificial dance-fire, saliva flies, hands are dry, and these not-men wring each other out.
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Jack Colton and Amos Damroth reach into the depths of their depraved minds and pull out an incredible amount of screwed-up word wisdom. Help them get better.
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