Autumn evenings are hazy and dull, in the fog one senses frail vastness. A collection of desperate people in desperate places, mangled together by a sea of mortar and brick. You're city is sepulchre, you roam the streets surrounded by the dead.

                                                                                    Dead Star
                                                                                 by: Sam Matz

Vibrant colors and neon lights, so much to take in at the vastness of the city. He stood there in the sky of sight and sound unmoving, as though he were molded by the stone and metal he stood atop of.
Staring down on the entertainment district of the city, he listened for the location and name of his foes. Wind blowing like a mighty hurricane past him, but he does not stumble. Lightning crackling in the sky like a shooting star, but he does not flinch. Thunder booming like the mighty bang of the suns, and his resolve and spirit booms and burns at the might of the universe surrounding his embodied form.
She is looking at him again, like a guardian angel from the heavens. There is no one there, yet at the same time, there is someone there.

The reception began at 8:30p.m. in department #203 ( Kill Floor ). The guests enjoyed an array of Hors d'oeuvres and liquid refreshments, and then listened to an impassioned speech by Steven Lee Matz on the correlation between the pieces they were about to view and the nature and functionality of the self in a mass consumer society.
From there the guests were led into department #204 ( Kill Floor ), which functioned this evening as the gallery and main center for the event.
The gallery smelled of stale blood and sweat, this scent was carried upward to one's nostrils floating aloft an uneasy latex undertone.
The music provided was played on two turntables on a stage decorated with glistening strips of red meat and three heads of cattle. The figure of Seven Vegas lurched over the vinyl on the turntables as a murderer over his victims. His eyes could just barely be seen beneath the Guy Fawkes mask he had on. Dancing about maniacally while making split second calculations of the turntable visually and then carrying them out with rapid precision Vegas mesmerized the guests with flashing lights,
pulsating rhythms, and images of art, cuts of meat and live stock. 

The theme of Organic Sculpture was definitely the main thesis of the exhibit. Viewers lined up in front of Still life 33  by Steven Lee Matz ( Figures 1 & 2 ), a piece comprised of 75 sides of beef. As well as Clientele  and 3 sides of beef 3 times  by Seven Vegas ( Figure 3 ).
As the evening progressed most of the pieces were devoured by the onlookers, many of whom had spent the majority of the evening salivating like ravenous wolves and sipping white wine. Suddenly the lights flickered off and many of the guests ran off into the bitter cold which accompanied the night, some never to be seen again. 

"This is the plight of the pig and 'Oinker's Last Voyage'", Mark said, " 5,000 years and the wife were having you skin and gut the curator; Thanks for this post! 
We, a fertile people for the first time this year, and firm tip of modern day pigs! You're giving us the monumental buildings, now actually do it!"

                                                                                        November 2, 2013 
                                                                                                     at
                                                                                                10:37a.m

Attempted before Buddy Shepherd said: "2,500 years older, like the Acropolis ( the restaurant ) when a stunning because the skin is cut off to dominate the landscape -to in walked over to the table- No getting the hair off unless we inspire, perhaps even intimidate."
Tell me about you're childhood.
"A long open mouthed kiss..."
A wet business? So we'll try and eat grandpa!
"Most pigs saw it! The people who built this thing..." she'd seen him later, as she the wife, glared at her husband.
"Here you go. You're feed!"
"'Ended, it remains a mystery, as the last straw!'"
They absently looked at each other, and then their long pewter spoons.
He continued, "Point is that it comes from the point of origin of the complex itself. It's not much, although it's enough, I want a divorce."

                                                                         .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .     
                                                                                  
                                                                                      November 3, 2013
                                                                                                 at
                                                                                            1:42a.m
The fence is to be scratched as a temple; it's likely to have understood that. 
The husband: "This! Do you have a buddy or some funny animal variety of functions during the thousand years and then you kill it! Was in it's use clear, and now we holiday where winters are golden no more.
And if not I'm going to be a vegetarian for seasonal rituals, feasts, and trash in the garage and no more. The discovery is all the more intriguing when the decision to make it is all yours."
 Unless I could have quarried thousands of tons of festering info about the woman. A beautiful young anvil thing. 
Aborted it several miles to a grassy prom ass. We burn the hair with commanding views of the countryside. Their workmanship was impeded in a way during butchering. 
The imposing walls they built was and is a messy end credit to the Roman centurions. Who, centuries later would erect Hadrian's wince.
Lester tried to skin G.I. Joe and the Moth of Britain. 
Within those walls we tried.
Among them one of the largest farm girls said: "Creatures built in prehistoric northern Euro, skin on for the hams. More than 8 feet long and 60 feet wide, you can totally do it all much easier. We put 13 feet thick; if the complex featured hunts then you and I could tackle processing chickens. Pick them processed chickens for that you and you're love tip...
but, you know I have thought about pigs! They are mean pigs and have little courage."
And some replied: "Pigs that we have met in people's lunch with an acquaintance, like to have their ears scratched and be fed. We used a propane trolley."
The butterfly said: "Since she'd gotten you're pig or cow by the hand, some folks like to keep the information I need. You can always just think of skinning in the hen yard, and the stun gun is good blonde American love. Now get behind a tree and shoot"

The crowd applauded only briefly for the impromptu hoopla, and the farmer flipped the switch on the side of the device. A little flame could be seen on the bottom of each side, but was soon rendered invisible ( as was the pig they called Oinker! ) by heavy dark smoke which seemed to naturally accompany the flames and rose as heavy velvet curtains in the morning. Then the pig lifted slightly off the ground ( about 3 or 4 feet ) for a few minutes before taking off into the sky never to be seen again.

Art & Story by: Jim Mazzocco