The tall, dolmen-clad figure with indistiguishable face was a prelevant fantastic motif in the paintings of XX-century surrealist, Claude Bouregresse.

What's odd, the entity also appeares in one of his seemingly-undoctored photographs.

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"... and that final ingredient"- the alchemist continued - "is a tear of an angel".
"Tough luck"- laught the royal torturer - "angels don't exist".
"Oh, but they do! You will find one in my dungeon. But they don't usually cry. This is why I called for you".

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Joy woke up to sound of scratching. Her own fingernails bore deep into her chest, leaving deep trails of torn skin and gushing blood.

She didn't feel her hands move. She didn't feel any pain. All she felt was the itch. Scratching felt good.

She smiled.

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He rushed his horse, burning with desire, thinking about her tender lips, thirsty for his kiss.
She was waiting for him, under the willow by the pond, her eyes gleaming with moonlight. She desired him, too. She was thirsty. But her tender lips were gone.

8 38

Made a deal with myself
I ignored the devil
With telltale tools of my craft
I called spirits to revel
Our drink & food & merriment
Lucifer claimed as his own
In punishment for my affront
I’m left with candle, book & bone



🎨EnysGuerrero

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Well, and how would y'all like some ?
Meet my pal, Unworthyreturn!

7 27

At the end of the hallway digestion becomes the least of their worries. Eat your way through 7 buffets, the initiation challenge had read. Text books lightly sautéed progressing to pickled intestines had not prepared them for roasted professor.

5 29

If you want your works read, or want to get on the open mic 🎤, come early so we don’t run 🏃🏽‍♂️ out of time ⌛️ before hearing you on the international Twitter stage!

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There are moments in life
when you realize
you’re in a horror movie
and you must choose wise

Fight
or
Let it go
or lie in wait
Act
or plot
schemes

Win lose or draw
Eyeing death’s maw
Hoping to survive
terrors you

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Putrid projectiles hit everywhere—ricochet—as if fired by a see-saw soldier. Pestilence is a rider deranged; mind as diseased as the rest of his corporeal host. It's horseman roulette what sticks and what misses, but we're all plague bearers now.

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That one night when every person in Europe above the age of 31 had a dream about "the factory".

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Porous was the pillar
of my supposed virtue.
As the drugs kicked in,
fiery sin, it wrecked the bed.
I looked at her .. Demonic!
Lustily chthonic!
“Again?“ I sighed.
“Another ride!” she hissed.
O my succubus, mount me!
My wild, hot wave of wicked glee.

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His heart made a morbid rasping sound
Scattered aimlessly on her ground
All he ever said was
What!
And it started gushing blood
Rasping again yet this time
In a loathing sound
All what remain in him
Was suddenly changing
To the one thing he was always afraid to be🐾

4 11

By the hellish host
My music long since silenced
Strains of dark night play







Art: Babette Van den Berg

7 17

By day she was a dignified funeral director. Composed, as she led corpses to their resting place. Comforting to their loved ones. The same loved ones who came back later to find out the secrets of the dead. Yes, by night she was The Undercover Necromancer

8 33

harvesting virtues
sharpen the edge of the scythe
bring in the sheaves

3 9

The wine tasted off
in it caused a cough
And I became moth


4 11

It took longer than expected, but the final merch giveaway is live! Check out my pinned tweet and cast your votes now 🗳☑️



🔗 https://t.co/uJGdxLPYoN

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