As promised, dedicated to one of my favourite movie vampires and even bigger than last year.

I will make a cover piece with all the tracks listed at some point but for now i've got some Cooties to watch and several pounds of sugar to consume.

Goodnight and good luck, for there be monsters out there.


Would you look at this thing?
This shit's bleeding adorable.
And the frosting tastes like apple Chewitts.
My cauldron runneth over.

you ruined my life

I shall be aiming this at anyone who displeases me.
Which will be everyone.

the oatmeal

The Oatmeal does actual damage to my face muscles.

toydrum - famous last cord

toydrum - suspension

toydrum - god song

If you partook in this year's This Is England then you may have noticed TOYDRUM just killing it.

konig - point of light


No monumental shit fits were had.
And i'm surprised my face isn't currently lockjawed on this bulbous beauty.

I'm going to christen it The Venus Loaf because, well:

candice tripp // houses of horror // part 2

House 12: The Yankee Pedlar Inn, the Innkeepers

House 13: Rambla de Catalunya, Rec

House 14: Let The Right One In

House 15: The Freeling House, Poltergeist

House 16: The Cotton House - 187 Dollis Hill Lane, NW2

House 17: The Danvers State Hospital, Session 9

House 18: The Marsten House, Salem's Lot

House 19: H. H. Holmes' Murder Castle

House 20: The Brooklyn brownstone, The Sentinel

House 21: Hill House, The Haunting

House 22: The fortified mansion, 28 Days Later

House 23: Buffalo Bill's house, Silence of the Lambs

House 24: Allerdale Hall, Crimson Peak

House 25: 284 Green Street, Enfield

I think i'm drooling.

See previous eleven here.

anthony cudahy

panopticon // ianbythehill

Ianbythehill_ anthony cudahy
Anthony Cudahy

'I was sitting in Old Town Square
with tourists and birds and I was reading
Foucault, how “he who is subjected
to a field of visibility ... becomes
the principle of his own subjection”
and all around me the beautiful
Czechoslovakian boys moved through the first
day of spring like perennially
visible inmates in the opening credits
of a prison porno. The sun reflected off
the glass and my table was an inscrutable
tower of light from which I peered, invisibly,
at the swan-graceful boys who seemed to skirr
across the stones, traveling, it seemed, to something
vaguely ridiculous and charmingly anachronistic:
cuff link shopping, or brunch with the duchess.
The coffee had made me jittery and I was beginning
to sweat from both sun and desire. I considered
moving to the outer edge of the circled tables, so the boys
could see me as I could see them, but then the 600-year-old
orloj sounded the hour and the twelve apostles
and skeletal death spun around and I was afraid
to leave my tower. I didn’t want to be visible
in the way those small dancing figures were visible and
as much as I wanted a handsome companion, I feared my foot
getting caught in a sewer grate or my spoon
falling from my saucer and clattering on the pavement,
startling the birds into a ruckus. An errant ball
of sweat fell from my chin and onto the page. I looked
down to where it had landed on the word “reciprocal”
which made me think how looking is always reducible to twos —
two eyes, two parties, two possible outcomes, and how
those who watch from the panopticon’s black pupil may,
in any case, not even exist.'

Sunday in the Panopticon

toby cypress

phosphorescent - wolves

ghost hugs are cool

Do you know what makes this the champion of all phantom sweatshirts?
It's fleece-lined.
Props to those who know what Turkleton is majestically dancing to.

after dark

'Eyes mark the shape of the city.
Through the eye of a high-flying night bird, we take in the scene from midair. In our broad sweep, the city looks like a single gigantic creature—or more like a single collective entity created by many intertwining organisms. Countless arteries stretch to the ends of its elusive body, circulating a continuous supply of fresh blood cells, sending out new data and collecting the old, sending out new consumables and collecting the old, sending out new contradictions and collecting the old. To the rhythm of its pulsing, all parts of the body flicker and flare up and squirm. Midnight is approaching, and while the peak of activity has passed, the basal metabolism that maintains life continues undiminished, producing the basso continuo of the city's moan, a monotonous sound that neither rises nor falls but is pregnant with foreboding.'

After Dark
(Page 3)

pride and prejudice and zombies

Just yes.

pluto // life

Life in the round

[On February 7, 1979, Pluto crossed over Neptune’s orbit and became the eighth planet from the sun for twenty years. A study in 1988 determined that Pluto’s path of orbit could never be accurately predicted. Labeled as “chaotic,” Pluto was later discredited from planet status in 2006.]

'Today, I broke your solar system. Oops.
My bad. Your graph said I was supposed
to make a nice little loop around the sun.


I chaos like a motherfucker. Ain’t no one can
chart me. All the other planets, they think
I’m annoying. They think I’m an escaped
moon, running free.

Fuck your moon. Fuck your solar system.
Fuck your time. Your year? Your year ain’t
shit but a day to me. I could spend your
whole year turning the winds in my bed. Thinking
about rings and how Jupiter should just pussy
on up and marry me by now. Your day?

That’s an asswipe. A sniffle. Your whole day
is barely the start of my sunset.

My name means hell, bitch. I am hell, bitch. All the cold
you have yet to feel. Chaos like a motherfucker.
And you tried to order me. Called me ninth.
Somewhere in the mess of graphs and math and compass
you tried to make me follow rules. Rules? Fuck your
rules. Neptune, that bitch slow. And I deserve all the sun
I can get, and all the blue-gold sky I want around me.

It is February 7th, 1979 and my skin is more
copper than any sky will ever be. More metal.
Neptune is bitch-sobbing in my rearview,
and I got my running shoes on and all this sky that’s all mine.

Fuck your order. Fuck your time. I realigned the cosmos.
I chaosed all the hell you have yet to feel. Now all your kids
in the classrooms, they confused. All their clocks:
wrong. They don’t even know what the fuck to do.
They gotta memorize new songs and shit. And the other
planets, I fucked their orbits. I shook the sky. Chaos like
a motherfucker.

It is February 7th, 1979. The sky is blue-gold:
the freedom of possibility.

Today, I broke your solar system. Oops. My bad.'

Pluto Shits on the Universe

the mermaids // fairy tears

Fairy tears
Magdalena Lutek aka Nishe
Fairy tears

'The spell is a mouth’s
perilous-o as they dark circle the boats in
their most resplendent pliable armor.

The concept fish aligning with girl
or love with death
to bring down men at sea, temptation

confused into offering,
the mismatch of like plus unlike
really likes, straight to rock bottom.

No equation has ever been this badass.
It’s the men who will enter the spell
so far into exhaustion as weather, as waves,

the tide pulling toward if, letting go then
over the whale road in the company of
the dolphin, the only other animal, I’m told,

who can do it solely for pleasure. It.
You know what I mean. The lower half
aglitter, the top half brainy as beautiful

is sometimes, murderous lovelies, their plotting
and resolve and why not
get these guys good, the lechers.

To see at all in the whirling, to hear
what anyone might
in wind roar and faint whistle — 

don’t worry about girls shrewd
as whimsy, legend-tough
to the core. Don’t. But it’s

their spell too, isn’t it? Locked there.
Aligned with singing, dazzle
razor-blackened green. Not that they

miss what human is like or know any end
to waters half born to, from where
they look up.

Men in boats, so sick of the journey.
Men gone stupid with blue,
with vast, with gazing over and away

the whole time until same to same-old to
now they’re mean. After that, small.
Out there, the expanse. In here,

the expanse. The men look down. Aching
misalignment — gorgeous
lure that hides its hook steely sweet

to o my god, little fool’s breath
triumphant, all the way under and am I
not deserving?'

The Mermaids

uzochukwu // freytag-loringhoven

Late summer storm.
David Uzochukwu
Late summer storm

'From Daddy sprung my inborn ribaldry.
His crudeness destined me to be the same.
A seedlet, flowered from a shitty heap,
I came, the crowning glory of his aim.

From Mother I inherited ennui,
The leg irons of the queendom I once rattled.
But I won’t let such chains imprison me.
And there is just no telling what this brat’ll...!

This marriage thing? We snub our nose at it.
What’s pearl turns piss, what’s classy breeds what’s smutty.
But like it? Lump it? Neither’s exigent.
And I’m the end result of all that fucking.

Do what you will! This world’s your oyster, Pet.
But be forewarned. The sea might drown you yet.'

Fruit Don't Fall Far

practical magic

'For more than two hundred years, the Owens women have been blamed for everything that has gone wrong in town. If a damp spring arrived, if cows in the pasture gave milk that was runny with blood, if a colt died of colic or a baby was born with a red birthmark stamped onto his cheek, everyone believed that fate must have been twisted, at least a little, by those women over on Magnolia Street. It didn't matter what the problem was—lightning, or locusts, or a death by drowning. It didn't matter if the situation could be explained by logic, or science, or plain bad luck. As soon as there was a hint of trouble or the slightest misfortune, people began pointing their fingers and placing blame. Before long they'd convinced themselves that it wasn't safe to walk past the Owens house after dark, and only the most foolish neighbors would dare to peer over the black wrought-iron fence that circled the yard like a snake.
Inside the house there were no clocks and no mirrors and three locks on each and every door. Mice lived under the floorboards and in the walls and often could be found in the dresser drawers, where they ate the embroidered tablecloths, as well as the lacy edges of the linen placemats. Fifteen different sorts of wood had been used for the window seats and the mantels, including golden oak, silver ash, and a peculiarly fragrant cherrywood that gave off the scent of ripe fruit even in the dead of winter, when every tree outside was nothing more than a leafless black stick. No matter how dusty the rest of the house might be, none of the woodwork ever needed polishing. If you squinted, you could see your reflection right there in the wainscotting in the dining room or the banister you held on to as you ran up the stairs. It was dark in every room, even at noon, and cool all through the heat of July. Anyone who dared to stand on the porch, where the ivy grew wild, could try for hours to look through the windows and never see a thing. It was the same looking out; the green-tinted window glass was so old and so thick that everything on the other side seemed like a dream, including the sky and the trees.
The little girls who lived up in the attic were sisters, only thirteen months apart in age. They were never told to go to bed before midnight or reminded to brush their teeth. No one cared if their clothes were wrinkled or if they spit on the street. All the while these little girls were growing up, they were allowed to sleep with their shoes on and draw funny faces on their bedroom walls with black crayons. They could drink cold Dr Peppers for breakfast, if that was what they craved, or eat marshmallow pies for dinner. They could climb onto the roof and sit perched on the slate peak, leaning back as far as possible, in order to spy the first star. There they would stay on windy March nights or humid August evenings, whispering, arguing over whether it was feasible for even the smallest wish to ever come true.'

Practical Magic
(Page 3-4)

miguel - damned

miguel - leaves

austin wintory - the assassin two-step

bread bread bread... bread bread bread... bread bread bread bread bread... bread

Behold, The Hockey Puck*

This bitch right here? This rotund motherfucker?
It was made by yours truly.
And it was fucking stressful.
I'm a panic-based nightmare who gets freaked out by the basic act of boiling water so it was only to be expected but ughhhhhh "so easy a 6 year old could do it" my ass.
Do not make this bread.
Just don't.
Sure, it tastes like it's been blessed by the lord of gluten and butterfly kissed by fucking fairies but is that worth the five existential crises** i had in the process?
Yes it is.
It's so good i might cry into its floury crust.
And then maybe register how filthy that sounds.

*or The Demon Loaf, it's a toss up.
**thank you family for not drowning me in the bath.

seinabo sey - still

maciek jasik // christina rosetti

Secret Lives

'Morning and evening
Maids heard the goblins cry:
“Come buy our orchard fruits,
Come buy, come buy:
Apples and quinces,
Lemons and oranges,
Plump unpeck’d cherries,
Melons and raspberries,
Bloom-down-cheek’d peaches,
Swart-headed mulberries,
Wild free-born cranberries,
Crab-apples, dewberries,
Pine-apples, blackberries,
Apricots, strawberries;—
All ripe together
In summer weather,—
Morns that pass by,
Fair eves that fly;
Come buy, come buy:
Our grapes fresh from the vine,
Pomegranates full and fine,
Dates and sharp bullaces,
Rare pears and greengages,
Damsons and bilberries,
Taste them and try:
Currants and gooseberries,
Bright-fire-like barberries,
Figs to fill your mouth,
Citrons from the South,
Sweet to tongue and sound to eye;
Come buy, come buy.”

Evening by evening
Among the brookside rushes,
Laura bow’d her head to hear,
Lizzie veil’d her blushes:
Crouching close together
In the cooling weather,
With clasping arms and cautioning lips,
With tingling cheeks and finger tips.
“Lie close,” Laura said,
Pricking up her golden head:
“We must not look at goblin men,
We must not buy their fruits:
Who knows upon what soil they fed
Their hungry thirsty roots?”
“Come buy,” call the goblins
Hobbling down the glen.

“Oh,” cried Lizzie, “Laura, Laura,
You should not peep at goblin men.”
Lizzie cover’d up her eyes,
Cover’d close lest they should look;
Laura rear’d her glossy head,
And whisper’d like the restless brook:
“Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie,
Down the glen tramp little men.
One hauls a basket,
One bears a plate,
One lugs a golden dish
Of many pounds weight.
How fair the vine must grow
Whose grapes are so luscious;
How warm the wind must blow
Through those fruit bushes.

“No,” said Lizzie, “No, no, no;
Their offers should not charm us,
Their evil gifts would harm us.”

Goblin Market

nicolas delort


the donnellys // last breath

last breath

'Someone in an accent of seduction whispered salmon.
Then someone filled a bucket up with sleep.

Mermaidism in the Donnelly house
was five sisters deep.'

The Donnellys

fargo // noah hawley - go to sleep you little baby

lemolo - knives

nicolas delort

An actual god.