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thetorturegardens · 2 months
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Cho Giseok
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thetorturegardens · 6 months
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The old-regime axiom translates to "The blood we shed makes our own blood purer," but the new regime added a clause about "blackening our hearts."
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Time slowed down so much we stopped calling it time.
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It starts with a nosebleed, bathroom mirror reflection, and it ends with the end of the world.
—paul curran, generation bloodbath
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thetorturegardens · 6 months
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thetorturegardens · 6 months
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thetorturegardens · 6 months
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Matt and Sam. Norfolk, CT by Jen Davis 2007
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thetorturegardens · 7 months
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At the start of twenty-five years' incarceration (torture for heretical poems, execution for political incest), I bite through the banister staring down at my own bloodbath.
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The Antihuman Slaughter Agitation Group (ASAG) confused conservation with eradication, and this glitch resulted in annihilation never witnessed before.
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We feel black rain coming in from the ocean, crows punching holes in the sand, crows hammering the bay, but in the morning, the palm trees have been touched up, and then a bulldozer crushes them, this set being recycled, and us being blood and bone and sand.
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Dashboard cracks, foam burnt by the sun, remind me of cigarette marks made on your face, a hack-death-slasher final girl in a video store, marks becoming holes with a ballpoint pen, your body pretty much gone, ripped up like a magazine page by rogue-regime goons.
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If it takes a bloodbath, let's take a drink.
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The most beautiful sensations I remember are the abrupt feelings of potential freedom, the frantic voices whispering, withholding cartoon hysterics, and being excessively drunk.
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My tooth floating in a wine glass is the final metaphor.
—paul curran, generation bloodbath
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thetorturegardens · 7 months
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patrickjoust | flickr | tumblr | IG | prints (flickr) | prints (society6)
Mamiya C330 S and Sekor 80mm f/2.8
Kodak Portra 160
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thetorturegardens · 7 months
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Jeanne Moreau photographed by Douglas Kirkland for Playboy Magazine, 1965
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thetorturegardens · 7 months
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“Call it a kiss, but I want to dip my fingers into a dark wine and paint your lips red and let it drip down your neck. I want to cup your wet chin and raise the goblet of your fine wine mouth to mine. I want to drink from you until we taste the same.”
— Peregrine  
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thetorturegardens · 7 months
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thetorturegardens · 7 months
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Sora Choi by Brianna Capozzi for Victoria’s Secret
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thetorturegardens · 10 months
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It's impossible to disappear if we were never here, but blood speaks louder than epistemology, and a knife in the face speaks louder than a stamp on the passport.
—Paul Curran, Generation Bloodbath
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thetorturegardens · 10 months
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thetorturegardens · 10 months
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koen hauser in the anatomical venus: wax, god, death + the ecstatic - joanna ebenstein (2016)
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thetorturegardens · 1 year
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In a neo-regime archive warehouse, painstakingly arranged piles of glass spin phantom mirror dreams: three rolls of masking tape, two blowtorches, a handful of lollipops and other candies, a bucketful of cocaine, the old-world currency of pain and desire.
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The bloodbaths return night after night, which makes sense
if we consider what other voices were heard here and there before the neo-regime's revolutionary guards got hip.
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At a truck stop near The Blood Licking Wall, we step over potholes of blood (the staff had been tortured with coat hangers for thirty three days, or so we were told by the tour guide).
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Blood for the sake of blood is the best sort of blood.
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When the blood runs dry, we run through that old trick with the wine.
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In the absence of absinthe, we face the firing squad.
—paul curran, generation bloodbath
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thetorturegardens · 1 year
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robert gligorov
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thetorturegardens · 1 year
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lediouck on ig
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