Necrophilia, like incest, cannibalism and other taboo practices, is a subject both forbidden and tawdry—attracting those low spirits who wish to be titillated by the morbid and revolting excesses of the mentally deranged. Alternately, it is the paen Poe and other poetasters of a melancholy and sepulchral countenance paid to the Final Howl of Love: a searing, grave-defiant passionate embrace of the sacred form, the illusion; the fast-decaying image, or shell. Is there a yolk within the egg? That is what religion and even science asks; or rather, what religion propounds while science investigates the possibility.
I've recorded noise and musique concrète recordings for over fifteen years, working under ironic monikers such as "Extreme Volume Pop" and "Meat Glue." Yet, I actually know very little about the genre, the "scene," (such as it is), nor have I ever performed live or been to a "noise show." I know the various artists strictly through message forums and trading packages. Over the years, sending packages of cassettes (noise people often still use old-fashioned audio cassettes) to foreign locales has cost me a small fortune. But, these people give as good as they receive: I've gotten presents from people as far away as Serbian and Chile, Australia and England, and the Netherlands. In some cases, these were expensive gifts.
Note: The title of this essay is inspired by the title of a story in the anthology 'Lonely Vigils' by Manly Wade Wellman.
Back about a million years ago, when my buddy Buff and I used to peddle our badass selves around Gas City, Indiana, in and out of what were, at the time, called "video cassette shops," the order of a hot summer's day almost invariably involved finding the woodsiest, foulest, most rotten el cheapo exploitation classic we could lay our hands, and a dollar-fifty in rental fees down upon.
I do gay phone sex for fun and profit. Mostly fun at this point, actually.
Pepper Kester is a lesbian porn star. Or, mostly so.