Saint Maud // Madelaine Culver





folding into


a humming

leads her into

prayers, morbidly quiet

her name

becomes a burden

unsettling disgust

a climax of agonies

self-harming interiors

she can’t save


Madelaine Culver is a writer and poet currently based in Newcastle upon Tyne where she’s studying for a practice-based PhD on British horror cinema and intertextual poetics. Her work appears in various places online and in print, including ALIENIST3:AM Magazine, and Seen as Read: an anthology of visual, asemic and photo poetry. Find her online at

Re-Animator // Evan Isoline



after Re-Animator (1985)


» Inhumation, at a distant and achingly absolute beyond > anything > this fly head will inspect the code > of a nameless content: I am to turn myself into a » human solution to this > crime: forced murder at a distance > feeling > of the sun > up ahead it would be for > a second > make like we are throwing ourselves from the bridge, this shall be for > beauty, for > itself >

» A noose of light around the frame > my humanity a living structure to animate what the > machine designed to eat > will eat in all eternity > mankind > to represent itself in its intention to be the machine > in order to be voracious for the repetition > of death > this charade > what would I wear > this body in this moment of the sun > a bat meat in the high voltage > grid > you will forgive me if > I am the object of my own labor > and eat the sun >

» Doctor, > would you advise injection? > I beg you, have a little mercy. > What? No, no. You’ll do it! You’ll kill him! >

» Doctor! I think he’s comatose, Doctor. I don’t see any signs. > Come, let’s go. > Doctor, his pulse’s failing! > Doctor! How long will he be like this? > Is he dead? > Doctor! > What were you researching?>

» Death >

» The invention of language > became a vehicle for immortality > then it became a prison and I would take this > device and find a means to escape > from the body > in which language imprisoned me > so I asked for a new material to live in >

» The theory is not new >

» My reagent is >

» I knew then and know now > we were in a zone > a pocket of absolute horror > cold feline tongues > add to that the homicidal sex drive of the sun > the protozoon had already walked > within > the molecules of my being, I knew > what I had to do >

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Daisies // Joshua Martin


[harpooning a jar of pickles]

on Věra Chytilová’s Daisies


^ ** ^   m/e/c/h/a/n/i/c/a/l    h,i,n,g,e    POLKA DOT bomb bOMb BOMB   [s]   , , , , , fruits (of paradise ??? that’s the NeXt TrIcK) , , , , flywheel MaRiE    mArIe   the motion set adrift strafing : :  creak   creak   creak   creak   creak   creak   creak  : : may AS well AS spoiled AS why not    ] while the muck away the time [   , , ,   worn  & worn   &   worn   &  all spoiled to the de(con)structive   > > > >    a dance that reverts the types the [dis]illusions CRACKING subversive states :

‘a necrologue about a negative way of life’ – – –

inverted   > > > >    ANTI!    ANTI!    ANTI!     > > > >

an overplayed HAND dealt of stereotypical regimes ] food for thought [ food for advantage [ food for weapons [ . . .

mOcK    mOck   Mock   MOCK  &





: B&W   :   Reds   :   Greens   :   Blues   :    cut in/out /

figments of privilege | flutter flutter flutter of an overstated lash |   – – – thick pointed layers of black around the eyes  – – – flap


flappers   , , ,   the disruptive chaos (invoked MaRx [brothers, et al.]) , , , perfected , , ,

, delusions of a systematic purpose,




HoP . . .

if a philosophy is a farce   – – –  the GAS (heart) left on is NO good   ] a window [ a waste [ the body butterflies , , , ,

declarative clichés

, he [they]who CANNOT see beyond charades / facades / mockery / the phone speaks without understanding



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The Hole // Mike Corrao


From the plaster, an evocation summons every droplet of water. THE RISING HUM. Telephone wires looping around your neck. We are connecting two points in space.

cinematic bodies

thru the gap

scenes of microlithic corrosion

Modern architecture makes me nervous (Johannes Goransson)

There is an overgrowth of inorganic materials spreading through the building. Either guided by the annihilatory ambitions of the landlord, or some unknown malevolence. Gray sludge uproots the wallpaper, eating away at every solid structure. The tiles are beginning to sag, smoke is seeping into the hallways, the ground is opening up.

open wide o earth

i want to see what’s inside

We have found that buildings with running water beneath their foundations tend to have a higher degree of activity (Steve Gonzales).

i don’t want to go outside

can you feel it?

i’m in your walls

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Dagon // Mason Parker


[Devilfish clouds close in] If there were ever a moment when the floods came again, tilting earth toward the days of serpent people spinning upward from the UFO crash site, I would buy you strawberry ice cream.

I am upset with the ocean, the way its predictability washes over my chaos. I see blood near the buoy pouring from rich lovers with nothing to pursue but life. I think about scrying into their blood. I think about scrying into blood and ice cream.

My first two wet dreams came last week at 33 in the bed of our sailboat—the first was for love and the second for gangbangs. There was fruit in my wet dream.

I wish I could churn the ice cream myself and pick the strawberries from our garden where they sat green all summer filled with slugs and worms until the rain rolled in. But we are far from our garden.

We will continue sailing and we will live off the salt. I will use it to make you ice cream, and the ice cream will melt, and we will pour it into a birdbath, and we will stare into it, and we will see other worlds.

We will see Candyland or maybe that’s too obvious.

But any place is sweeter than this place. The place where my skin has been peeled.

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Love Exposure // Stuart Buck


I am not an experimental writer


I’m trying to write an experimental movie piece on a movie which is probably my favorite ever (if pressed, its this or Mulholland Drive). The problem is, I don’t really classify myself as an experimental writer, and as such I’m struggling with the concept.

What’s an experimental piece of writing, and more specifically how do you write about a 4 hour movie in an experimental way? I shouldn’t have looked on the fucking website. Because I saw Gary Shipley on the website and I love Gary Shipley. His book Terminal Park is one of my favorite books ever. He reduces humanity to a kind of slop. I didn’t read his piece because I knew it would be like walking naked in the rain. It would make me so small. The movie is called Love Exposure and it is directed by sex-pest extraordinaire Sion Sono.


54 dead schoolgirls


The scene that made me watch Love Exposure was not from the movie Love Exposure. Rather it was the opening shot of Sono’s 2001 masterpiece Suicide Club. In it, 54 teenage girls hold hands, chatting excitedly, by the side of a train track on the Tokyo subway. As the train approaches, they begin to count down, swinging their arms. The train moves closer. You never – not once – assume it will go down this way.

Then they jump.

The entire station is bathed in red. Sono doesn’t hold back. It’s one of the best opening scenes in cinema history. He did this again in Tag. I won’t describe Tag’s opening scene. Go watch it on YouTube. Once I saw Suicide Club and Sono’s ability to produce cinema that made me doubt my sanity, I realized Love Exposure was for me.

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Guinea Pig 2: Flowers Of Flesh And Blood // Alex Kies


When I grow up, I want to buy a car and go driving. I’ll stop at a restaurant and eat some curry rice or something. I might even visit my relatives.

It is very sad that people who were born with such disabilities have their lives greatly influenced by their disabilities.

He wanted to reincarnate his grandfather and believed that this reincarnation would not be complete if any of his grandfather’s body remained.

Children who say things like that will end up like this.

His penis is no thicker than a pencil and no longer than a toothpick.

Otaku are anti-somatic. Information is their only drug, but that they preferably take intravenously.

If I tried to talk to my parents about my problems, they’d just brush me off…I even thought about suicide.

They are no drop-outs, but part-time outsiders.

It would roughly translate to ‘sweet little pretender’ or if you interpret it sarcastically you could also say ‘fucking little liar’…

I’ve killed cats. Threw one in the river. Did another in with boiling water.

He’s perfectly happy. He is allowed to read comic books all day.

I wonder whether otaku will create a new culture…I hope they will become a real shinjinrui, a new kind of Japanese, I mean, a postmodern people.

I sleep until my eyes are about to rot. I see dreams.

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A Visitor To A Museum // Ansgar Allen


What do you want from me, observer, with this observe that there, see it that there below, grey obstinate what there that there, observe, then, not nondescript enough, say, surely never nondescript enough, that ever enough walked already beyond itself, and the extras. Cough grievously, enflamed that there and on that there, never behind there, never that not nothing, else, behind that there becomes, grievously mistaken. This way, never behind with coughing, these extras, they cough, about which say nothing, in advance only. Not nothing extra, observer, what say it then, that, nothing not extra, the extras who cough in advance only advance only. See what sea then that then saying when, or days, three out three back, see that sea then seen it gone.


Ansgar Allen is the author of books including a short history of Cynicismand the novels, Plague Theatre, Wretch and The Sick List.

Black Candles // Karina Bush


She watches from the incest pit gold cigarettes.

She is fractured in the head.

She fingers her fractured head. 

Pearls after pearls after pearls.

Flowers flying from the incest pit.

All tender in the pearly orphic dream.

She masturbates the goat.

The goat loves it he fills her cup.

She drinks the sperm of the beast.

The sperm glistens her insides.

Slips through the cell doors into her empty space.

She is part of the fleshy universe.

She had repressed this dream.

The feeding dream.

The non-ordinary state.

She has pregnant tits to rage suck.

She fucks the air fucks the world.

The skin is all that exists.

She anoints her in Latin.

In the stable where Gods are born.

She fucks the goat in Latin.

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