Communion

Cut away the curds of fat that hold the intestines tight to the muscles of the spine. Excise the diaphragm from below. Split the sternum. If your blade gets lodged in bone, hammer the hilt with the flat of your hand. Sever the esophagus, remove the lungs. These are pink-yellow and can be squeezed like a sponge. Watch them go sucking back to their native shape.
The heart looks exactly as you would expect it to. Cut away the blood vessels. Hold it in your hand - this engine of the body, fuel pump for muscle and bone, nerve and organs. Seal it in a Ziploc bag.
You may also put the liver in the Ziploc, if you intend to eat that too.
Leave the entrails in the snow below a fallen log for the racoons, possums, coyotes, turkey vultures. Watch them steam. Watch them sink like warm rocks through snow melting red around them.

...
How To

Hold the doe's head in your hands. The pupils are immense, black as stones underwater, now clouding over with a layer of white. The tip of the tongue hangs from the corner of the mouth, dripping blood into the snow. The blood steams. Let it wash over your bare hands.
It is wet, and your prayer is still warm.



Christopher Mohar - 'Communion' Gastronomica 11:4, 2011

Big Love

Notorious B.I.G - Ready to Die, 1994

Necropolyst

"Moskvin confessed what had inspired his obsession with the dead. He describes how back in 1979, when he was 13, he was stopped by people in black suits on his way from school, dragged to a coffin containing the body of an 11-year-old girl named Natasha Petrova, and forced to kiss the dead girl. “I kissed her once, then again, then again,” Moskvin said in the newspaper article. The mystical ritual ended with the girl’s mother putting wedding rings on Moskvin’s and the dead girl’s fingers. “My strange marriage with Natasha Petrova was useful,” Moskvin recalled, as the experience helped him to develop a deep interest in “serious magic ceremonies.”"

Perfumer

the pleasure of fiends (some girls are so vain)

a bitter underlying the sweet, a bitter offensiveness, as one smells in blood.
I was afraid to raise my eyelids, but looked out and saw perfectly under the lashes. The fair girl went on her knees, and bent over me, fairly gloating. There was a deliberate voluptuousness which was both thrilling and repulsive, and as she arched her neck she actually licked her lips like an animal, till I could see in the moonlight the moisture shining on the scarlet lips and on the red tongue as it lapped the white sharp teeth. Lower and lower went her head as the lips went below the range of my mouth and chin and seemed about to fasten on my throat. Then she paused, and I would hear the churning sound of her tongue as it licked her teeth and lips, and could feel the hot breath on my neck. Then the skin of my throat began to tingle as one's flesh does when the hand that is to tickle it approaches nearer - nearer. I could feel the soft, shivering touch of the lips on the super-sensitive skin of my throat, and the hard dents of two sharp teeth, just touching and pausing there. I closed my eyes in languorous ecstasy and waited - waited with beating heart.

Bram Stoker - Dracula

ancient chinese sexy graveyard

"The bodies inside the boats were still wearing the clothes they had been buried in. They had felt caps with feathers tucked in the brim, uncannily resembling Tyrolean mountain hats. They wore large woolen capes with tassels and leather boots. A Bronze Age salesclerk from Victoria’s Secret seems to have supplied the clothes beneath — barely adequate woolen loin cloths for the men, and skirts made of string strands for the women."

NYT

Library of Dust

David Maisel, Library of Dust 1211, 2005, C-print, 64 x 48 inches

"From 1913 to 1971 five thousand one hundred and twenty one mentally ill patients were cremated on the grounds of the Oregon State Hospital. Their remains were sealed in copper canisters. The canisters were stored in the hospital’s basement until the 1970s when they were moved to a memorial vault underground. The vault was subjected to periodic floods. In 2000 they were removed from their institutional crypt, placed on plain pine shelves in a storeroom, and were left virtually forgotten until David Masiel heard of their existence and photographed them."

- Adam Harrison Levy, Observatory: Design Observer

Library of Dust 387

Library of Dust 1834

Library of Dust 2251

Library of Dust 1470

plath and larkin zombies blah blah blah

What infects as the more deadly sickness, waking or sleep? Which poses more danger – the removed, hyper-dulled, desert psyche of the insomniac whose solipsistic nocturnal world disallows participation in the inherited routines of modern urban humanity, or the satiated masses content with the tedious leitmotif of day-to-day business, naïve and ignorant to the skulking tick-tock of inevitable, unpredictable mortality? Death lurks; the insomniac faces the monster of non-existence night after night in sharp clarity of sleeplessness, the mind having been stripped from cloying layers of daylight obligations.

artists

don't treat your gifts like a demon.
Goodbye, Alexander McQueen. You will continue to inspire.

"i've never been so horny over a funeral in my life."

"mmm death is sexy."