The Mask, by Mitchell Stoycheff; art by P.L. Cobb

The Mask

Deception smiles behind its mask
A facade of joy; a troublesome task
Lying dormant: calculating
As it waits to strike, unsuspecting
Gazes flicker behind the mask
Beware: for in the glory which you bask
For vivid tales can not atone
And towers crumble from single stones

A Portrait of Lust

A Portrait of Lust by Mitchell Stoycheff

Go on, lover.

Go On, Lover

Go on, lover,
lift up my skirts
feast your eyes where the sun never shines.

Who is it going to hurt?

People like you, they complain
about the agenda of the gays.
“They’re nothing like you and I, beautiful!”
Or so you claim.

I disagree with such statements
false as they are.
In saying them, what do you gain?

They’re almost like me, darling.
They want to love, they want to live.
They want to eat, darling!

You became a part of my agenda
the moment you fell victim to my sultry gaze,

So go on, lift those skirts.
Let me show you what I live for.

Go on, lover!

I’m gonna eat you up,
maybe more.
Go on, lover, feed this whore.


The Enigmatic Monster Project presents: Face

Allow Me to Elucidate

Or rather, to introduce, as in: “Hello, I am a figment of your imagination–the scourge upon the youth of the nation . . .”

But don’t give me too much credit. My ego will grow to be too great, and will float away. And if that were the case who would believe you?

For three long years I’ve haunted you. Me, myself, and my hallucinations three . . .


Our Overlords, by P. L. Cobb and Jacob Zaccaria


Figure 1: In the mighty form of figure one, we observe the lord all mighty. Theo. The monster. Named so because of Gmail. Curses! Our grand lord and task master, forever left to slumber beneath the City of Misery.

Figure 2: Furtive and frightening is it that may not exist. The thing which exists in-between the realm of existence and that of non-existence (and patron god of the ever redundant). Oh holy parasite of dubious goodness . . . Coopid of the many wings. And things.

Figure 3: Cats do not exist, and that is a fact. The master of all arcane science. Ashkenaz the daemon scholar, wreathed in flame. Wherever he shall go you shall remember his name.

Ha, ha!

What is happening to us?

What is happening to me?

To Our Mercurial Saviour

To Our Mercurial Saviour

The liquid drops.

Shifts in heat and pressure tantalize your delicate senses. Titillating sensations run up and down your appendages, and you shiver.

Heat rises and falls, teasing you, mesmerizing you like a hooded cobra. In a show of aggression it bares its fangs, hissing. The bones in your ears vibrate; inside your skull it sounds like miners chiseling away at the foundations of your soul. Digging holes in your sanity.

You shake your body, desperate to make the noise stop, desperate to stop all sensations. It is useless. In doing so you succeed in increasing the frequency of the sounds. Tapping turns into a shrill trilling, causing your eyes to water. Water infuses itself with the oils from your thick hide, and your eyes begin to sting. It’s as if the cobra has spit its venom into your face.

The liquid begins to rise–that’s how it feels to you. An intense pressure begins to bare down on you, crushing you, ripping your skin and snapping your bones.

You suddenly realize that you are angry. You are annoyed. The emotions that were once nameless are now terrorizing you, threatening your very existence. The pressure is building up; you stand, precarious, seeking release, moving. Each movement creates friction. Friction creates heat. A tightness surrounds you, and you realize that you are trapped within something. Or tied to it.

And then you remember. A grand plan, your masterpiece. Below lies your creation, this meticulous masterpiece. Your order out of chaos. Order and chaos bring to mind your plan. To purge the universe with a flaming sword. Then the death of a god. And rebirth.

Without hesitation, you unleash what has been growing inside of you for millennia. A rush of new feelings fill you until you are brimming with joy. You’ve never known the exquisiteness of orgasm until now.

Even as your body is falling apart, you are at peace. A once magnificent form regresses back into formless dust, and a vast consciousness dies.

We, the creatures you had vowed to save, regress back to a primordial state, then to the very stardust we were made with. As our hearts and souls become one, it suddenly dawns on us that we did not save ourselves.

You were us.

Oh, to be as mercurial, and precocious as you are–God!

Did you not send us the heretics and the blasphemers? And did we not cut them down, even as they slept, like the criminals we were?

We live in you, and you die in us. And now are we not one?

It is finished.

Now our great death shall forever attest to your greatness, oh Goddess. Let this be our last, melodious song to our mercurial saviour.

Blessed be!

As our consciousness disperses, we prepare ourselves for a dreamless sleep, secure in the knowledge that we will reform once again. After nameless millennia, when this wretched universe has died, we shall re-emerge as gods–and our realms shall be known as Hel.

What I Found on Instagram

Oh Instagram, you spoil us! Terrifically nightmarish paintings by Dusty Ray!