1 // The text is deceptively simple in terms of diction but it’s shimmering surface belies a depth with an undertow.
2 // Call me Flamingo; whatever it was is fading. I sat atop where I happened to live just being. Outside my work inside my car I’d slug at sugary black liquids that energize. I programmed, encrypted. Where I existed was with a city no longer operating as a city, rather a pustule… (pg. 17)
3 // Old Murphy
4 // This book is experimental in the way only best lit can be. It’s like a schizoid analysis working parable; like a Philip Glass chorus falling into line, coming into perfect harmony – these voices weave and blend into a glorious cacophony.
6 // Old Murphy
8 // The man does not strut, does not smile. Simon’s works were shared via some murdered junkie’s manifesto I’d consulted over. Theirs: Aryan breeding. They came of ranging guts and strove. I saw enough in each their murders. Euronymous: a plague, a dwindling song atop some sheep-skull. A church burnt, their teeming, hands of Simon. It began as work for me. I in recording rendered fat to disc and saw kiddie nightmares play out over their sleeping ramble. It was empty. Their black jeans. Ripped nailed bulleted pulled to bits fragments like so much grieving teenagerdom. (pg 67)
9 // Idaho represent!
10 // It’s unfair to compare this book to anything else, as its unlike anything I’ve read before, but it belongs on the shelf as other strains of powerful modernism.
12 // Here is an interview with Grant.
12.5 // Buy