Rot — by Jack Hawthorn

The thing that pretends to be a boy licks his lips. Savoring the salty, jagged edges of peeling skin. Flakes fall from many sordid lesions. A snow of fetid flesh. Every orifice oozes a soup of bile and blood. He is all over this wretched, forgotten hole in the earth. Even in the air. A taste in the mouth. A bouquet of rage, gangrene, and shit.

The thing that pretends to be a boy will never die, but he will always be dying. He will never escape, but he will always be waiting. He is a newborn. He is a boy. He is a corpse. A profane metamorphosis of perpetual putrefaction and unholy birth committed simultaneously. Encapsulated within every moment.

A primordial filth that smirks in its refusal to die, choosing to eternally continue his perverse suffering rather than grant the world freedom from his corrupting rot.

Artist Bio

Jack Hawthorn is a human wildfire currently residing in Lawrence, KS. They spend their time sweating into the soil of various local farms and slinging books at the Raven Bookstore. They’re pleased to make your acquaintance and can be found @HoneybeeHag on Instagram.