the phrase ‘, said the shotgun to the head’ is sticking with me. the idea of suicide — of opening your mouth and feeling the rough winter of a barrel on your tongue, like accepting the wine-dipped wafer from the priest — all of a sudden the body of christ is on your wet warm living tongue and it is thin and delicate as styrofoam…
this is your body. this is your blood.
suicide in this manner is strange to me because it is like a very very old rite – you accept the gift of the bullet, you take it into you and it becomes you just as in communion you accept the overwhelming gift of flesh and blood, broken for you
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Listening to: Antibalas Afrobeat Orchestra – Sister
via FoxyTunes
for future reference 