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When I destroy a photograph of someone I feel so fucking good. I want to end everyone’s memories of people, I want to stop people three or four generations down from knowing who anyone was or what they did.
To be a noise producer (“musician” or “artist” seems less than universally appropriate for practitioners of the discipline; a more neutral term is necessary) is, inherently, to be a pervert. It’s always deviant behavior, always against the grain. But there’s levels to it.
the road from philadelphia to tunhannock erupts into a tableau of arborescent violence; hosts of dryads weaving reds, oranges and yellows, ghost girls reaching out through limbs to arms to branches to fingers to leaves.
A xerox-textured, beachside autumnal tale, Croyden’s Grail follows a strange party’s on their fated grail quest, where they encounter a bulb-headed, dancing dog walker who will shift their destiny.
Drawings in celebration of women—depicting them doing such innocuous activities as going on a computer, being pregnant, walking dogs, firing rifles, and panhandling.
Weird military fiction and fragmented glimpses into vast worlds.
A man, rescued from a waterless dive by a robot hoping to “fix” him, finds himself disintegrated by a noxious fog of “Chrysanthemum Clouds,” the beginning of his transformation.
The absolute bizarre experiences of touring, noise shows, strange personalities in subculture, and being caught up in the antics of peers.
A wide range of artists from a variety of disciplines deliver sinister incantations.
The First issue of Cyanide Swamp, Reptile House’s broad reaching horror anthology
The Tyrant Queen of Iron City presents us with a bouquet of petty grievances.
The ritual sacrifice of three men at the hands of three inverse-graces.