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Amphetamine Sulphate
Jason Williamson 'Slabs From Paradise (Alt Colour Cover)'
£12.99
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Amphetamine Sulphate
Jason Williamson 'Slabs From Paradise (Alt Colour Cover)'
£12.99
“It’s a wanker’s hell, a nothing, with everything wrong in it. Civvy Life is a fucking boredom cruise across the dead med. Fuck that.
Responsibility isn’t for animals on drugs and when the sharpened cone emerges, the green twisted wart, the wicked witch; then you go for it big time, open your legs, fuck them, let them fuck your face, become the god and don’t feel bad about it either.”
Put a song in your heart (and a pill your tongue) with these five stories of misery, mirth and mental mayhem from the ground zero of UK grimness. “'Amphetamine Sulphate', a chapbook press that prides itself on the cheap, brutal rush of pure literature.
Among the writers of the first collection is Sleaford Mods' Jason Williamson, who's turned his pen to a collection of five stories titled Slabs From Paradise.” Quietus
Responsibility isn’t for animals on drugs and when the sharpened cone emerges, the green twisted wart, the wicked witch; then you go for it big time, open your legs, fuck them, let them fuck your face, become the god and don’t feel bad about it either.”
Put a song in your heart (and a pill your tongue) with these five stories of misery, mirth and mental mayhem from the ground zero of UK grimness. “'Amphetamine Sulphate', a chapbook press that prides itself on the cheap, brutal rush of pure literature.
Among the writers of the first collection is Sleaford Mods' Jason Williamson, who's turned his pen to a collection of five stories titled Slabs From Paradise.” Quietus
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Release Date: 24/05/2024Visit product page →
I WILL FILL MY BELOVED MEXICO WITH BETTER DISFIGURED GHOSTS
David Kuhnlein writes like he’s casting a spell. Bloodletter is entrancingly evil, every sentence a revelation and a curse: “How much can you care for someone if you can’t afford to dress them in a body bag? ”
A grotesque world unfurls from his searing prose: “Ghosts reveal their measurements in smoke, different shades, more rings in the middle if they died long ago. Satan can’t keep up.” Blood sacrifices have never been so beautiful. -- Danielle Chelosky
"Half our clothes are on the floor. The other half hang from the ceiling. Labyrinthine flesh-piles make a staircase. Polishing the soot off a breast with my sleeve, I dance horizontally. The band regurgitates into their instruments to slow the tempo, blowing catchy bubbles of sick. Sweat snows upward, stagnant when we see ourselves pooled within it, mosquitoes in a tin can. Vestigial, amoebic replications, abominable degenerations of the ape, totems fucked through stained glass. I toast the trash.
Out of mounds, shaved together into a consciousness, a golden star excretes, floating toward me in a mist, apples singed in her teenaged hair, waist the width of a cigarette. I’m going to bugger her so hard they’ll have to put a serial number on the headstone. “If I’m to your taste, mister, this might spell the end for you.” What more could I ask of a woman?
A heart condition of a child, torqued to breed too soon. I offer dialectic fugues, 77 press her forehead, cast a sigil tuned to the cacophony around us. Swaying, she enters a canyon trance, plummeting under magma.
Beautiful funerals for all my friends. Remember me as an itch."
With cover design, illustrations and Art Cards by Steven Purtill (Human Rights, Coyote, Small Talk at the Clinic etc.) -
Visit product page →Are You Ready To Have Your Skull Scraped?
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In my imagination I’ve killed myself a thousand times. Others, too. Max Restaino’s Coyote is a drawn out dissociative episode, a lucid nightmare of disemboweled animals, nosebleeds, vomit, tapeworms, soundtracked to System of a Down. Kids play video games, trespass into abandoned homes, chat in the school cafeteria, but the universe disintegrates slowly, leeches crawling underneath skin, every moment pierced by a knife. Coyote is raw, enveloping violence. -- Danielle Chelosky -
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Your Dreams, despite its impulse to hide, faces the reader head-on in an intimate unmasking, still grasping for closeness in a world of limits.
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