Have you ever wanted to read a book about serial killers getting it on? Few pieces get as down and dirty with the criminally cannibalistic than Poppy Z. Brite’s 1997 novel, which dessects its fetid foray into multiple POVs. One is a necrophiliac who slips free of British prison by faking his death; another is also a necrophiliac who enjoys savoring his victims in posthumous culinary tributes; and then there’s the abusive radio deejay and his ex-BF, who has his own ghosts haunting his attempts to escape the bayou’s oppressive swelter. Having in recent years dropped his pen name for the more fitting William J. Martin, the author’s New Orleans-set novel got the coveted description from YouTuber critic May Leitz of being “very, very, very gay” in three different ways: 1) it is textually about gay men; 2) it depicts gay sex; and 3) the prose is “capital G Gay.” What does that mean? I guess you’ll have to read it – and test your gore tolerance – to find out. – James Scott