THEY CALL THIS HOUSE DEAD.
ii. (or noise)
apparently it’s a genre. or the sonic manifestation of not knowing what the fuck to do with yourself but finger wires & switches & frequencies & tour nationwide. monikers sound like garbled telephone messages overheard on t o o l o u d a wavelength for actual conversation to occur or is occasionally just racist.
or the hum. ventilation. the house hums with hot water pipes, & every floorboard as been scuffed & scathed, each footstep a siren, a knock.
sometimes there is music. spilling from the ceiling, growing with spores, & peeling. every crack in the wall whispers when doors fly shut.
sometimes there is music. & singing, & loops & loops, & loops & stops. there are riffs, & loops, & loops & stops. & riffs & modulations & r I f f s & modulations & RIFFS & modulations & loops & loops & loops & stops.
there is thumping. there is moaning. there is a rustling of feathers in the wall & wheezing & coughing. there are burps that sound like prayers, like you are summoning something of Saturday morning cartoon villain.
jayy dodd is a writer, editor, and homeboy from Los Angeles, now based in Boston. His work has appeared / will appear in Lambda Literary, Prelude, Assaracus, Guernica, Winter Tangerine and The Offing. He’s the author of [sugar in the tank] on Pizza Pi Press. You can find him on the internet talking trash about something.