As published here
As I was nearing my house after long last, I remember that I had promised
Abella another rendezvous last night for a tryst that Nadia had charmed me
into overlooking. I uselessly quickened my pace, abiding by no logic
whatever, and hurried home. Climbing the steps to my porch, I expected to
see a note in either the mailbox, beneath the doormat, or fastened to the
door somehow, but no such note awaited me. I stepped inside, locked the
door and heaved in disappointment. If only I would have obliged Abella
last night, I would not have fallen in love with Nadia. Why had I
occasioned to eat at that particular diner at that particular time? If I
would have dined there only five minutes sooner, I would not have laid
eyes on my unattainable love. I went to my room and collapsed on my bed,
hoping that I could fall asleep and remain so for the rest of the day as
well as the days to come, and I was on the cusp of dreams when I heard
something rustling beneath my sheets. I was stricken with panic and jumped
to my feet, watching this mess of sheets contract and contort. I could not
have been dreaming for I had not yet fallen asleep, and there was little
hope of doing so now. The amorphous form groaned and grew as if animated
by some surreal force. It rose slowly, stopping just beneath my neck.
“Where have you been, Marcel?” my blanket grumbled. I remained silent,
stupefied. I could not place its voice. “I waited here all night for you.”
The sheets then dropped and Abella’s yawning figure stretched from out of
the enveloping fabric.
“Abella, how did you get in here?”
“Your screen door was unlocked. When I realized you weren’t home, I came
in through the back, expecting you within an hour or so of my arrival, but
you didn’t come back for me at all.” Her face had deformed into an injured
frown, and her disappointed eyes fell among the ripples and distortions
her slender figure imposed in the sheets.
“I’m not going to ask you where you were. I’m afraid that the answer would
hurt too much. Hold me, Marcel.”
I laid her down and wrapped her lightly in my arms.
“Why don’t you hold me as tight as you did before? What’s wrong?”
“I’m tired,” I lied. I realized that she was nude beneath the covers, and
I laid fully clothed next to her, comprising an awkward portrait of
“You still haven’t kissed me,” she cried, turning to me and laying her
head on my torso, her eyes, pregnant with hope, begging me. I obliged her
and pecked her gently and lowered my heavy head onto my pillow.
“You’re so cold, Marcel.”
“Am I? It’s rather warm in here,” I observed naively.
“No, I don’t mean it like that. Something’s wrong with you. You’re hot yet
still clothed, and I’m in your bed naked.” Abella’s turned her head away
and her voice quaked as she asked, “There is another girl isn’t there?”
“No, there is not, Abella,” I lied, although I made no attempt through
physical gestures to convince her.
“Then fuck me,” she yelled with tears in her eyes.
The Roses of Sodom is an exploration of man in a Sadean vein and, by extension, the oppression and possession of women. Preaching from neither a platform of moralism nor ethics, The Roses of Sodom exists merely as a morbid portrait of man’s primal propensity for ruination wrought by his animal desire.
Loss of Form follows the passage of physicality into essence, and our subsequent striving to substitute the estrangement from one form with the physical consummation of another.
Voyeur is a terse documentary of the assumption of guilt from the entertaining of vulgar fantasy.
"Four tracks of industrial dance music whose construction is heavily influenced by drone lo-fi electronics. Painting a vulgar picture with bristles and oils lent from Bermuda Drain-era Prurient, Age Coin and Vanity Productions; utilizing spacey pad synths, analog arpeggios, drone and crumbling noise, the resulting ambience describes a sensual darkness that slowly surrounds and enshrouds one in a dissonantly dancey atmosphere of gritty sexuality, filth, isolation and guilt. It is a soundtrack to the theatrical exhibit of your worthless sense of self, a celebration of your slow and selfish suicide."
Five random orders will receive the flower cover on the right.
Edition of 50; 25 available here - additional copies/alternate cover available at http://www.cynicdoserecs.bigcartel.com/
Communicating Vessels cover by Terrin Winkel — CynicDose cover, tape, and interior artwork by KBT.
Communicating Vessels/CynicDose Records
"Cull the roses of sodom"
All copies of The Intrigue have sold out. To those who are waiting and have been for some time, they are packaged and ready to be shipped. I promise to find the courage to step outside sometime soon. Until then, all apologies.
A reprint of The Intrigue may also be in order. A second personal press, albeit very limited, may be realized sometime soon, and there is talk of a professional publication by a well-esteemed publisher in the relatively distant future. There will be no pre-orders or anything of that sort for the second “friends” press, so if you would like a copy, please contact me and I’ll add your name to some sort of list — email@example.com
Also, new works are currently being slaved and obsessed over.
Thank you to everyone for their support, you are all beautiful.
This novella is the culmination of nine months of romantic dead-ends, social failure and the resultant acquiescence to life as mere simulation, the sperm of which created this throbbing literary pregnancy.
A didactic examination of loss, despair, and absurdity as pervades existence in universality, The Intrigue takes influence from the weighty psychological leanings of Sartre, Hamsun’s aim to essentially capture the, “whisper of the blood, and the pleading of the bone marrow,” and Tolstoy’s emphasis on the interpersonal.
Drawing Kunderian parallels in regards to the dichotomy between love and sexuality, The Intrigue concerns Marion’s divorce from his wife, Mona, over her discovery of his ultimate intrigue, and his subsequent search for tenor and beauty in his existential rubble.
The Intrigue’s primary platform is not to find itself in good regard solely from the sensationalism afforded from the plot but instead seeks to unearth and trace the psychological root to man’s every action, word and thought.
"He lie utterly liberated- sovereign from obligation, thought and existence. With not a
thing left for which to live for, he was left with nothing to die for. Marion needed nothing to
devote his passing to. Those who die for an object, an ideology- for love, for country, for art all
die in vain as a means to sate their ravenous egos. Untethered from the ties of existence,
one is afforded the freedom to die with no reservation, but what a drudging freedom it is. In
finding no interest in life, one fails to discover a preference for death. It is an entirely stark
rope one drags oneself along between these two poles.”
Edition of 50