A suite of surrealistic black fable fables which expose an occult global of intercourse magick, lunar mutiny, excremental demonolatry, in utero lycanthropy, sadomasochistic vampirism, oneiric publish mortem malediction, and different strange manias; a publication steeped in arcane legislations, suffused with the body spray of graveyard erotica.
The e-book of James Havoc's anti-novel Raism used to be greeted with equivalent extremes of revulsion and enjoyment. In Satanskin, he has taken the motifs of that e-book and woven them right into a sequence of ugly morality stories defined in his personal specific language.
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Additional info for Satanskin
The norse, turbinal rain brings a succession of bestial faces; outdated, ordinary glances, simply one flashing series in an unfathomable retinal spool of burnt out frames. through a virtually metastatic transference we once again reach the inn of our infancy, that damaged weft as untenable because the period of an undercurrent dream; a desert of erupting graves reclaimed. On an evening like this night, i think that dust is nobler, extra sexual, than flesh. It holds in its reminiscence the upheavals of planetary delivery, the very statutes of realization. The rocks, the bushes, the shadows them selves are in collusion; each atom of each substance boasts its personal impossible to resist strength. this night, they're begging to be loosed. Lightning, carry my hand. express me your face in black water. this night, an individual undesirable is donning Satan's dermis. II : HAVOC before everything, there has been cocksucking evil. Then got here Havoc. Havoc emerging, retromingent, flanked by means of her excoriating hounds Leatherface and Teatcleaver, lined in vixen turmoil, fangs ranging on the solar. She had perfected the artwork of coagulating, turning into as petrified because the mirrored image of a goat in obsidian or, back, gushing like carious starlight over the spires of primitive, hymnal bone that sheltered mankind. Mastiff fodder. Their raving lips pulped the culmination of sin – loss of life with 3 wicked heads. Remorseless, they poured in via meshed doorways and home windows, via hairline cracks in sanity and during the centuries; like an impulse, or a coiled curse flecked via the cinders of wish. Collared in excessive preacher steel, gorging on the historical trough, her hounds. And Havoc, she vampyre stalking an Earth illuminated in simple terms from under. Pent sexual violence and mutilating proposal wax everlasting; but polar zones agreement, meridians are latticed jointly like dragnets. Time is a cycle in which all stars are exiled. Now, like tumbling cube, the harvesters have come to hang-out my humble attic. Havoc, languishing amid blood and black dahlias; Leatherface and Teatcleaver baleful of their nest of mudlit femurs. and that i on my own needs to feed them. i'm the 1st keeper, and the final. past those attic partitions, superstition is moribund; with out me, the hunters turn into the hunted. We persist. The hounds are content material to lick and crunch clean cadavers exhumed from the churchyard, or the occasional deal with of abortion slops from clinic containers. yet she – she prospers simply on canned warmth. For months, i've got introduced Havoc adolescent playmates, girls and boys alike. She enchants them right away. I watch their destiny via a filthy skylight: stripped nude and tethered to her unusual mattress with black leather-based thongs, keen, firstly, for the lascivious torture to begin. For days, relentlessly, she preys upon them, arousing them with sickly caresses, tinglers of her lengthy tongue, the whispered promise of obscene trysts; many times to the threshold of orgasm, but by no means past. Mocking their screams for free up, their hideously contorted our bodies, she devours their boiling sexual ectoplasm. quickly sufficient, the victim's middle caves in.
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