the last synod of st. hilda

by | Jun 24, 2023 | Writing the Weather

we smashed charlie in the co-op car park, forgot about our woes and stds, even jimmy’s crabs were crawling less now, he was a happy chappy with very little clappy in the trappy, god it was hot, like the lick the sweat off your balls hot, 51c in the north, melting tarmac, melting politicians, melting asses, like actual donkeys melting from the inside out, on the dry grassland of northumberland, no place for an ass, no place for grass, speaking of asses, we cruised down to the water on the funicular, sand was so hot you could see your face in it, brian sorted out his quiff in the wavering reflection, he was a mod with a bod to languor for, he was our last cool man, but dead litter was everywhere, fishes undressed, their insides inside out, bare fuckers, sorry bastards, nobody fishes any more any where, still the bubbling sea had a calming effect on our hotheads, that ebbing and flowing soothed our coked-in minds, gave us something to hope for, several of us skipped stones to infinity, a placid sea never bothered to tide, what’s the point, what’s the use, we slumped a bit, came down, chased the insides of the baggie for the last of the charlie, but it was just paste, everything melts now, every fucking thing congeals, softens, liquifies, reduces, sizzles, evaporates, let’s go to st. hilda, jimmy said, red in the face, scratching his tommy hilfigers with industry, let’s go to the woman who birthed this godforsaken region, and we followed him, me, brian, a caravan of crabs on pestilent pilgrimage, up 199 steps to the abbey, perspiration in the nation, the sea a static below, the earth spinning in orgasm, you know, said jimmy, we’re going to be okay, we’re going to be cooler up here, in god’s realm, in the clouds–what clouds, jimmy, just hot piss–but we were there, at st. hilda’s stone feet, we were there for viaticum.

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