Butchershop in the Sky

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HERE. - Rated
In the vein of Salvador Dali's "Dionysus Spitting The Complete Image Of Cadaqués On The Tip Of The Tongue Of A Three-Storeyed Gaudínian Woman", Havoc has produced an autophagous beast of compacted meat and the detritus of ultra-sodom. This is only bettered by his work on "Blood Electric", where the howling is refracted through a system of convex spikes analagous to an inter-uterine car wreck. The experiment continues...

Looking for F. The genius he always was. - Rated
F wrote these books before he was Havoc, before he was Williamson. He is a product of his generation. He walked in single file, always did. In a black suit, black tie. Down Mutley Plain. Anyone recognize this person and the Havoc he became? A shy person with a
rampant (cleverly disguised, if you wish) imagination. He was a mystery. A mind that could not be read, a mind that harvested profound and convoluted musings (he rarely spoke). He had a muse. You'll never know who it was. This was before he wrote. He was an actor. Gave nothing away. Who could have known how he would exorcise his demons. F, Havoc, James, he adored Kim Wilde, beautiful, sensual. He is not all that you think. You will have to read his work to know. He is not all that you think. Don't be fooled. This person does not want to persecute, kill, torture or even hurt. He is an endearing soul (don't lie, we all are, don't tell me you hate that much, I don't believe you, it's not human nature to hate that much).He never had anyone look into his eyes and see the deer in the headlights. We all have fear. James Havoc has his way of expressing his disdain for fear, without acknowledging that it isn't there. It is there, in many forms. We all choose to accept it or not. If we don't it will show itself eventually and we will die of shock. So be prepared. Read about the fear and know it's there, it will prepare you. F, where are you.

Surreal poetic. - Rated
Havoc has the double gift of envelope-pushing extremity and an ear for poetic language almost equal to Iain Sinclair. The stories in this volume often read like the Goth offspring of Wiliam S. Burroughs and the Marquis de Sade, with a dash of Bosch for good measure.