

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.
Thirteen gothic tales about the direct encounter with death, in its physical, psychical, cultural, and ontological dimensions.
Nine visions of death, revelation, and the longing for transcendence—bathed in nocturnal light.
A Faustian tale of roommate trouble and atavistic hauntings.
Fourteen meditations on faith, filial duty, and physicality, filigreed with haunting, fractured sensuality.
Dub threnodies in devotion to the headless king. Hymns to a new sovereignty—of rot and decay.
A city, a signal, no static, all screens, all walls. All weeks, all months, all years.
A collection of six manga originally published between 1988 and 1992, by the unrivaled master of the erotic grotesque in Japanese art and comics.
Sixteen brutal, concise short comics from the master of Eroguro.
A voyage through four incidents of predation. The mysterious, the hunted, the inhuman, the trapped.