Sunday, February 1, 2015

Le Necrophile


The biggest house in Quincy, Massachusetts was owned by a funeral director. His daughters were the most beautiful girls on the South Shore in 1967 and they introduced Cream to their admirers. I was one of them. So was an apprentice embalmer for their father. The other suitors joked that Adam made love to the still bodies in the basement of the funeral home. He played a strange style of guitar. The older daughter loved his licks. Like Ulysses he slayed his rivals with a secret weapon.

A Fender Stratocaster.

One night when we were high on LSD, Cherie confessed that her boyfriend liked for her to pretend that she was dead.

"I lie on a cold stone slab."

I remembered a similar line from the film IN THE HEAT OF THE NIGHT, in which a young white trash girl tells about a night with a cracker cop.

He said to me, "Hey, little girl, you know what the coolest spot in town is?"

And I said "No, Sam. I guess I don't."

And he said, "The cemetery. That's where."

"Cos they got all of them big, cool tombstones to lie on naked."

That was a real 'huh' moment for the movie viewers of the time.

Like what the fuck are they talking about.

I learned what later when I found a copy of Le Nécrophile.

A photocopied English translation of THE JOURNAL OF LUCIEN H.

Most incredible passage of someone who loves the dead.

No serial killer.

Only a man cursed with the desire for death cooled flesh.

I think I have the copy up in Boston.

Probably get arrested for zombie outlawism.

It's probably on the books.

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