Cover A_AN cropped

A & N. Autophagiography. ISBN-13: 978-0692234204. ISBN-10: 0692234209. gnOme, 2014. 192 pp. $12.00.

A true story, hot off the wine presses of the heart. Something indescribable occurred. Communications ensued, becoming a saintly self-eating process whose vermicular trail is this book. Part romance, part mystical dialogue, part melodrama, Autophagiography is a ( )hole document of impossible love and friendship between two real inexistent persons. The results may astonish you.

Contents: I. ALP, a.k.a. Resent Morning Prayer. II. Scars of the Horizon. III. New Life. IV. Saintly Communication: A Rule. V. Postscripts

“Bitten hard by the Autophagiography‘s ‘spiral ouroboros’ even as concentration is dissipated among its narrative peculiarities, cultural allusions, codes, and ceaseless diversions, I will try to find a way to talk about it . . . ” — Nick Land

” . . . a significant accidental experiment in documentary authorship, an ‘as-is’ book with several delightful surprises and contradictions . . . the conception and editing of Autophagiography becomes an important part of the narrative itself, so that the text literally and narratively eats itself into its own real present, like some kind of monstrous love-child proverbially devouring the authors out of their inexistent sub-oceanic house and home: ‘The monster is here and I cannot stop it, I don’t want it ever to shut up. Whatever happens in this life there will be the fault of this cataclysmic now screaming to me, deafening me with the echo of a deformity that I always was’ (73) . . . One can only hope without hope that its authors somehow find happiness in this sphere or the next, or at least in a weird new somewhere that is neither.” — Anonymous, “Eating Yourself to L( )ve,” HTMLGIANT

PRINT: Amazon

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Cantos for the Crestfallen


Pseudo-Leopardi. Cantos for the Crestfallen. Translated by A. Necrezută, F. Pilastru & I. Imaculată. ISBN-13: 978-0692218853. ISBN-10: 0692218858. gnOme, 2014. 44 pp. $10.00.

Pseudo-Leopardi’s Cantos for the Crestfallen, here translated for the first time from the Romanian original, is a breathless expiration of impossible pessimo-mystical desires for the immanent beyond. In a sequence of thirty one verses channeling the spirits of Cioran, Dante, and the poet’s eponym, the Cantos testify to life’s senselessness, the necessity of being beheaded, and the love of saints. It is an intoxicated and uncompromising vision: The name of you / Who alter one atom of my sigh is now stricken from life.

“Not since Die Nachtwachen (The Nightwatches), published in 1804 under the pseudonym of Bonaventura, a German Romantic of often-attributed yet arguably still uncertain identity, has there appeared such a book as Cantos for the Crestfallen. Also written by an unknown hand, one drenched in a philosophy and poetics of an apocalyptic tone, the latter title rivals its predecessor in both mystery and melancholy. At the same time that the authors of these works tear the mask from the dark face of the inhuman comedy, they practice a reckless wit that makes the blackness of our lives blacker still. Cantos for the Crestfallen in particular flows with gruesome conceits that empty into an ocean of tears, ultimately drowning its reader far from the sight of land, of home, and of hope.” – Thomas Ligotti

“Like his namesake-by-declamatio, the author of Cantos for the Crestfallen has managed to condense all human afflictions into one solitary fusion of despair, a misery with teeth enough to bite the hand off every nescient and conciliatory illusion. And yet to underpin this breathless, almost throttled, ennui (his own sigh even “drowning in air”) there is the resolve and the bitterness of a love affair gone wrong, the unrequited affections, the raw feels of the world’s interminable spurning; and all of it a lie, a necrophile’s symphony tapped out by a heart made ash of, a heart crawling up a corkscrewed spine to die inside a brain.” – Gary J. Shipley

“Pseudo-Leopardi’s Cantos exhale a spirit of blackened occidental sufism that will make your head spiral.” – Pir Iqbal the Impaled

“From the enhaloed entrails of a forgotten notebook comes these Cantos for the Crestfallen. These poems describe nothing and enact everything—litanies of a moldering solar refusal.” – Rasu-Yong Tugen, Baroness de Tristeombre

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Songs from the Black Moon


Rasu-Yong Tugen, Baroness de TristeombreSongs from the Black Moon. ISBN-13: 978-0615969008. ISBN-10: 0615969003. gnOme, 2014. 80 pp. Text and images. $9.99.

All the trees whose names we have forgotten have long since embraced our entwined limbs.

In the tradition of the 19th century, fin-de-siècle prose poem, Songs from the Black Moon is a dark elegy for an already-forgotten planet and its wandering, somnambulistic inhabitants.

“A book of beautiful and strangely tranquil outbursts of disaffection and dissolution. I wish everyone on earth lived by the sentiments expressed within it.” — Thomas Ligotti

“In search of an atrabilious poetics that might render breathable the ‘black abyss’ within, the Baronesse de Tristeombre has written an apocryphal rejoinder to the Book of Lamentations, filled with salt, sand, crystal and leprous flesh. Read this grimoire of ‘tectonic sorrow’ and despair anew.” — Drew Daniel, author of The Melancholy Assemblage

“In the black light of these lunar songs, you and I despair for the last time, again.”
Pseudo-Leopardi, author of Cantos for the Crestfallen

“Songs from the Black Moon resurrects the literary tradition of Dark Romanticism – poetry that is stark, sparse, and drenched in a blackened lyricism . . . These poems are ecstatic lamentations for the world-without-us . . . ” — Eugene Thacker, author of In The Dust of This Planet


SBM @ goodreads

Serial Kitsch

new SK fcover

Yuu Seki. Serial Kitsch. ISBN-10: 1497562457
ISBN-13: 978-1497562455. HWORDE, 2014. 106 pp.$9.49

Serial Kitsch is an epic poem assembled from the testimony of a slew of serial killers, of so many translucent interiors taking on the colours and dimensions of many and of none. Though edits have been made, the words are all theirs. Though personal boundaries were frequently disregarded in the making of this work – presuming any were present at the start – the person-type remains intact. Type and the anonymity it affords is what remains. The acts and the products are “always the same” and “always different”: zeroed factory-people amassing other zeros like kitsch banknotes, each legitimate tender only for buying more of themselves.

“Like the best conceptual work, Serial Kitsch shows its innards, the way the work works. Like the best poetry, it guts itself for our aesthetic pleasure and contemplation. Like the best killers, it does all this using its words.”  — Vanessa Place

“It is strangely and disconcertingly fitting that Serial Kitsch starts out with a quote from Andy Warhol because this is really a book about art. It is a disturbing book that enters into the tricky and troubling relationship between art and violence by taking on (and taking in) one of the most frightening, influential and ridiculous figures of the 20th century: the serial killer. The serial killer’s ‘kitsch’ – his letters, his corpses, his appearance (‘But he looked just like an average person!’) – does not so much ‘blur’ the line between fiction and reality, violence and art, as show an intimate bond between these, a bond we might call ‘media.’ Conceptual poetry has long bragged about ‘killing poetry’; here the actual poetry finally goes gothic. You may not want to read the results; it’s a disconcerting but lyrical book: ‘I spoke to him as if he were still alive / how beautiful he looked.’” – Johannes Göransson

“Yuu Seki’s brilliant and necessary poem Serial Kitsch follows in the grand tradition of Aron the Moor’s final words in — “I have done a thousand dreadful things / As willingly as one would kill a fly, / And nothing grieves me heartily indeed / But that I cannot do ten thousand more” — and plunges this sentiment into the era of YouTube, when the faces and words of Dahmer and Wuornos can be pulled up and organized like a playlist. Reading this book allows language to fulfill its ultimate purpose: to disperse the diseased miasma of the human soul, or what’s left of it, to the ends of the earth.” — David Peak

“The figure of the serial killer has always captured the attention of the public and in recent television and film the figure has been domesticated (Dexter) and celebrated (Hannibal) in equally disturbing ways. Yuu Seki allows the words of serial killers to speak here in this epic poem. What we see is not easily put into a comforting or entertaining narrative, but is unflinching in forcing us to confront human evil that goes far beyond individual crimes.” — Anthony Paul Smith

“I…am left suspended, silent, before…the flowers that Yuu Seki has plucked. In a field stripped of all reverential and religious potential the poet has somehow managed to harvest a sacred surplus (‘this almost holy feeling’), that would have so fascinated Bataille….Yuu Seki’s flowers tell of a ‘founding violence’ that is ‘this unsteady mix of an art in nature with an art of nature wherein violence becomes authority’ [Taussig].” — Edia Connole, “The Language of Flowers: Serial Kitsch”

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SK @ goodreads

How to Stay in Hell

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Y. O. U.. How to Stay in Hell: Inspiring Instructions for Daily Living. ISBN-13: 978-0615953236 ISBN-10: 0615953239. gnOme, 2014. 36 pages. $6.66.

Hell is a special place. Some people say that God created Hell, but Hell is more special than that.

“An exceptional step by step guide for living a life of true and open awareness within the confines of this earthly world, How to Stay in Hell cuts deep to the heart of existence and eschews the binary simplicity of classic fire and brimstone hellscapes for the more tangible reality of Hell; the Hell of this very Being. Following the traditions of self-realization and self-actualization, How to Stay in Hell is sure to become an indispensable blueprint for personal achievement alongside Musashi’s The Book of Five Rings, or Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics. Don’t just stay in Hell, Master staying in Hell.” -V.C. Dark Magus Emeritus of the Order of the Black Mark

“…all the terrible and beneficent forces of mysterious Nature whose dark secret powers keep your life dynamically in place each moment of your life, waking you up in the morning and putting you to sleep at night, filling our bodies with pleasure and pain, our imaginations with fantasy and nightmare, our minds with ideas and anxieties. We are talking about the impossible everything that holds the whole universe in place around the single finite pole of you.” Kant by way of Vernon Howard, How to Stay in Hell should be required reading for anyone who refuses to let go of the idea that art’s greatest responsibility is to affirm life or that living life in itself is an art. Of course, thankfully, neither of those statements are true. — David Peak, author of The River Through the Trees

“A short tract of pessimist self-help which cuts to the heart of the mundane of horror of being you. Through a series of twenty affirmations of some of humanity’s most essential sick habits — e.g. ‘believing in yourself’, ‘making plans’, ‘practicing the personal touch’, ‘cherishing one’s opinion’ — the text provides a clear and effective guide for STAYING IN HELL. The book will make you laugh, because it is true. But it is not funny, the joke is on you.” – Törpe Könyvek


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Bergmetal: Oro-Emblems of the Musical Beyond

bergmetal front cover copy - CopyNab Saheb & Denys X. Arbaris. Bergmetal: Oro-Emblems of the Musical Beyond. ISBN-13: 978-1494907204 ISBN-10: 1494907208. HWORDE, 2014. 116 pages.

Bergmetal is a collaborative exploratory tract on the trisonic intersections of MOUNTAINS, MYSTICISM, and HEAVY METAL. Mixing theoretical reflection and studious redaction into ascending gestures of alpine musical thought, the book proceeds via seven poetic emblems plus commentary addressing works by Bathory, Darkthrone, Sleep, Aluk Todolo, Omega Massif, Schrei aus Stein, and Sapthuran. Opening essays by the authors on the ideals and history of the bergmetal genre provide a logistical starting point and contextual basecamp.

“A casual email…a voidal exposure…! In this slim volume, metal, lyrics, and philosophy combine – “with spirit deathless, endless, infinite” – to launch a ferocious assault on the imagination!” – Manabrata Guha, Prize Fellow, Univ. of Bath

“A strange creature I am now, burnt by the sun and yet frozen, clung onto my will to take just another step” — Stormcrow

“Metal! Mysticism! Mountains! Whoever loves one will be interested in this book. Whoever loves two will like it. Whoever loves all three might be in paradise.” – Nicola Masciandaro

“An ascent into the wilderness of alpine aesthetics and heavy metallurgies, with poetry, mysticism, and esoteric philosophy illuminating the peaks and abysses of sublime human experience alongside the indifferent expanse of geological time.” — RH, Schrei aus Stein

“It’s about time somebody published a serious piece of heavy metal commentary, and Bergmetal is it.” — Alex Sutcliffe, Lurkerspath

“Ihre Musik, die Texte, das Artwork, das Konzept, führen den Kommentator auf eine sowohl kulturelle wie auch geologische interpretation der Bergwelt. Harter Stoff, aber dafür umso faszinierender!” — Dominik Irtenkauf, Legacy Magazine

PRINT: Amazon.

BOMB @ goodreads


Hidden Writing (0) Occult Rumination (0) Doctrine Entity

rotting-head-monk - Copybeing neither oneself (ø) nor someone else

HWORDE is a book imprint openly burying and consecrating authorial identity within inauthentic compositional processes of exhumatory reformation ordered towards positive disintegration of discourse and transformation of its practice into logical deeds of textual self-defiance. We have had enough of words, enough of the coutured decadences of literary delivery and the celebrated hype-o-crises of intellectual analysis. Observe how the worldly orb sickly intoxicates itself with grossly individualized associations and influences of thought. We will take a steeper and salutary way, a profound ciphered path where there is silence to hear yourself think, where deep inside the inverted and corridored pillars of the crowded misauthorial mine, it is not you thinking at all, but something else . . . undeniable unanthropic entity. Here is the time for a new breed of word, a swarmic re-verb sprung from the diamantine unground occluded in the self-inaugurating triune shell games of religion-science-philosophy and ignored by their ingrown polyamorous offspring, the humanities. Our luminous blackened scriptorium—never ‘ours’ at all—is both cavern and summit, tower and cell, the site and dwelling of depersonal styli simultaneously piercing abyss and empyrean with divine schisms of pure doctrine, coldly immanent milieus, and occult quantum liturgies. Past and future have little bearing on the nightly stirgine labor of this writing, this heretical hunt exhausting the word of self and world. Now is the place for HWORDE.

To be imprinted by HWORDE, a book must be unambiguously faithful to the following principles:


The personal secular identity of writers is to remain obscurely masked, ideally, throughout the entire drafting process itself, so that no one ever really knows who creates the book, especially the authors. This is neither a place for needy people who want to take credit socially for their work nor for poser cabals who want to play inside/outside games of ‘having your cake and eating it too’. At this table we eat our cake—sweeter than all others—precisely by not having it, by more purely remaining on its exterior inside: “And she is inebriated not only from what she has drunk, but very intoxicated and more than intoxicated from what she never drinks and nor will ever drink” (Mirror of Simple and Annihilated Souls). The imprint by definition signifies a book written by who you do not know who it is—all the more so if only ‘you’ write it. HWORDE is not only a noble gesture, but a veritable crusade against capital authorship: Caedite eos! Novit enim Dominus qui sunt eius [Kill ‘em all! For the Lord will recognize his own].


Real, proper originality is always a matter of reconfiguring the received into that which is without beginning. It is a manner of apophatic (de)composition where thought, unsaying tradition towards its aboriginal core, overcomes the fraud of givenness and ecstatically dines by defiantly pouring its wine back into the soil. Renounce your march to the celestial podium, leave aside the political rostrum, abnegate ego’s infernal lectern. Instead, allow the cavernous centrum naturae or pre-positional torture chamber of the cellf to wail with neological alchemical forgement of magna opera whose vocality flies far above the polluted anthropogenic atmosphere in epic combinatorial forms of cryptic verse and retrograde prose. Redaction dons the polyphonic dismantlement and suffers the musical resurrection of voice per se, the clarion sighing of empty floating tombs—Tuba mirum spargens sonum / Per sepulchra regionum (Dies Irae)—collectively sinking time into textuo-sonic states of permanent, chronic auto-eclipse. To compose in this fashion means to transcribe void, to write across abysses produced by essentially hiding thyself and dwelling like a million angels on the chiming spear-tip of wordless mentalesis. In prioritizing redaction, HWORDE apotheotically subjects authorship to upside down, apostolic crucifixion at the ingenious headless hands of impersonal editorial mob.


The writing must necessarily experience and produce self-defiance. This self-defiance is not an abstraction or value of the work, but an essential aspect of its intellectual and affective quality, something that is proven in the woven texture of the text itself as hidden writing in both senses (writing of the hidden, hiding of the written). There is no need here for texts that entertain the obvious or that rest in the sad realm of agreement and disagreement. Neither affirmationism nor negationism can survive the radical negative immanence of self-defiance, which willfully cuts into the very organ of yes and no, creatively hurting life in the soft homes where it would sleepily lie. Specific formal criteria for self-defiance cannot easily be stated because it freely takes opposite stylistic forms. Textual self-negation is realizable as much through baroque ornateness as through scholastic clarity, as much through the lens of aphorism as through thick curtains of prose. The necessary quality of self-defiance is best defined as the verbal realization of fate: “In the life of the mind, there occurs a moment when style, transforming itself into an autonomous principle, becomes fate. It is then that the Word, as much in philosophical speculations as in literary productions, reveals both its vigor and its void” (The Temptation to Exist). The asceticism of HWORDE manifests in the die-casting, verbal aesthetics of wyrd.


Everything, and in particular the general tenor this impermanent life, is ruined by the idea of ‘do it yourself’ (auto-entes) which is everywhere misinterpreted as including yourself in the doing of it, or worse, doing something simply as a form of self-indulgence. The rule of inauthenticity is the opposite: never do anything yourself. Rather, prefer to do nothing, which is impossible. Ergo, do everything as not, as you are not doing it, because actually you are not. Inauthentic action, not doing it yourself, is truthful action, also known as complicity with anonymous materials. The principle operates on all levels and above all on the spiritually aristocratic plane of active freedom wherein principle itself is forever more powerful and intelligent than one’s thinking, saying, or doing of it. Inauthenticity is the motivational secret of all worthy bergwerk, whether ascending (alpinism) or descending (mining). You do it, precisely because you cannot. “In order to arrive at what you are not, you must go by a way in which you are not” (Ascent of Mt. Carmel). Accordingly, books smelling too much of self-doing will not be touched by HWORDE.


HWORDE seeks compositional nativity in the abyssic morphemes of immanence, in the midst of all self-written loci, transcribing perennial and supra-individual ascent. Their gnawing of apophatic verse plus our anthromorphic defiance in face of the resolute misauthorial commitment plus their being-tamed into well-mannered (un)anthropic disciples = A-VOID. Accordingly, HWORDE packs hunters of axioms, trappers of tachyons, rural polygraphers of rotten crimson, all of which ascend out of pure auto-aristocratic complicity into the inauthenticity of the urging void by means of nigredo, aboriginal vacuum of the null set, and regional exegeses of inhuman selves. All-in-all, ‘tis what defies the self-indulgence of literal surrogacy by totality that matters, the pure emptiness of universal sectarian attack. HWORDE-as-praxis falls unbelayed into the entity of your elevation, reciting its free scream at the willows of celestial death, not at the cramped place of authorial spectacle. The soil of native tongues, continually growing among the gardens of the tyrant, will ripen into impeccable fronds, innumerable avant-fronts of fauna fruiting severed heads of the acosmic opus. As lurking psychic plants at the precipices of Gyges, as Vulcan cartographers descending the Hellenian cascade, engrave your empty chant of immanence once again.

[]   HWORDE wants not to hear from you   []

P.O Box 40835
Austin, Texas, 78704