The Scorch Marks, The Surface Damage, The Trauma

by Black Hair Rolled In Dried Blood

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about

Do you feel it yet? The incipient migraine, the clotting, the terrible weight when you try to lift your head from the pillow? Do you sense the rock forming within the bone cup?
It is coming. It is coming. It is here. I remember the words of Philip Lamantia who remembered, in his turn, the poet John Hoffman, who vanished into Mexico. Into the mouth of a volcano, as some thought. Into a Guadalajara hospital. 'By night the deltas of the moonspilled planet/ are stoned under this wriggling light. By day, he chokes the sun.'
-Iain Sinclair from 'Silenic Drift'.

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released April 18, 2020

BHRIDB

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Black Hair Rolled In Dried Blood UK

He sits in a small room listening to their conversations and speaking to himself.
They all listen, dying to answer their own questions. He watches his own likeness reflected in the broadcast on the screen and recognises no-one.

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