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Throne of Blood by Cassandra Troyan [Solar Luxuriance]Throne of Blood opens with the casually terrifying sentence, “Every year just about spring the drained lake muds with the girls of winter bloated and tangled at the bottom in the wreckage of tree artifacts” and then pretty much goes everywhere from there. Troyan is hell-bent on bending hell into the idea of bodies and communication, to such extent that the book is constantly shifting gears, constantly refocusing your attention through dialogues with killers and text messages from medically demented sex fiends. Any time you might settle into the idea of having a direction, the book switches from anorexic to starving to melodramatic to terrified to pissed. “CHICKEN SALAD SANDWICH / CHICKEN SALAD SANDWICH / CHICKEN SALAD SANDWICH” it says on one page, and on the next: “I have been a woman for too long / in that fall there is levity / and the skullfucked panorama of / the future.” An insane quasi-monologue straight out of the death dream of Artaud stuck in the body of a 20-something female going fucking bananas on the internet, this shit is nice.
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