| Your dry throat creaks without a saliva to sputter
|
| As your pulpy dehydrated tongue soundlessly threshes
|
| Days without sustenance spent shackled and fettered
|
| Emaciated torso aches for the warm taste of flesh…
|
| I will make a meal of you, your hunger I’ll sate
|
| Saw off your leg at the knee to put on your dinner plate
|
| Try not to wince at the pain that you feel
|
| As I mince up your calf to prepare your next meal…
|
| Cauterise the gargled wound to stave off the haemorrhage
|
| You should savor the thought of your repast
|
| Choke down this bitter meal in spite of your revulsion
|
| Though how long can your source of food last?
|
| Keeping yourself alive as you’re force-fed your own flesh
|
| If you don’t eat up, you’re truly dead meat
|
| Legs turned to stumps, bloody drinks gargled in clumps
|
| In this case you really are what you eat…
|
| Autophagous gluttony
|
| Culinary pathology
|
| Dietary butchery
|
| Consuming impulse
|
| Ingest your corpse to be…
|
| Quadriplegic you feed as your dinner is served
|
| Waste not; |
| want not, though there’s not much to conserve
|
| Severed and severely served upon a platter of splatter
|
| After a while the source of the sustenance barely even matters…
|
| Now a half-eaten torso gorged to the glut
|
| Piece by piece you are fed the chicest cuts
|
| As the dinner-bell rings your bloody chops are feverishly licked
|
| At the sight of your own roasted fat turned and browned on a spit…
|
| Your own meat in your mouth tastes bitter and internecine
|
| Noxious and moist, you get a taste of your own medicine
|
| Gnashing, pieces of your limbs with delight
|
| Digesting your death with each grotesque bloody bite
|
| What’s eating you? |
| The question seems to moot
|
| Scraping chunks of your feet out of your blood-soaked sopping boot
|
| Bash open bones picked clean to suckle at the marrow
|
| As your culinary milieu of options inexorably narrows…
|
| Autophagous gluttony
|
| Culinary pathology
|
| Dietary butchery
|
| Consuming impulse
|
| Ingest your corpse to be…
|
| Feeding time comes again, the thorax falls victim to this slaughter
|
| Blood, pus and sebum replace wine, whiskey and water
|
| Sometimes survival will cost you an arm and a leg
|
| Your spittle running, red with bits of reeking bloody dregs…
|
| (Lead ' Mike)
|
| Masticate your own genitals, choke on your bludgeoned testicles
|
| With a hunger that will not be denied
|
| The sweetest of meats is your soft, fatty teats
|
| That I’ll be stuffing your face with tonight
|
| Puking up your own skin, just to devour it again
|
| Is a treat you’ll save for dessert
|
| Fresh meat for your lunch, fibula cracked, drained and crunched
|
| As your overstuffed gullet gasps and blurts…
|
| Your crudely resected anatomy is a wretched grisly sight
|
| But your stumps once arms just whet your appetite
|
| Nibbling at the sinews of your bloody forearms and wrists
|
| Ravenously devouring your shredded survival in fleshly chunks and meaty bits…
|
| Eviscerate yourself to gnaw at your own intestines
|
| Bones from severed fingers facilitate this haphazard self-dissection
|
| Clutch at grume inside your bowels with half-eaten grubby stumps
|
| Pulling out the repugnant meal in grotesque tumescent clumps…
|
| Remaining fingers prying off your succulent gouged out gums
|
| Gnaw at your stringy cheek lining and masticate your insatiable tongue
|
| But the pieces you ingest in carnivorous abandon
|
| Fall out of the gaping that you have torn in your intestines
|
| Gnash the meat from your avulsed face in a frenzied rush
|
| No genitals, no feet, no legs, no appendage left uncrushed
|
| Half-eaten tongue oozes spittle down your face ' your hunger undiminished
|
| Only when your partially devoured innards prolapse will this meal at last be
|
| finished
|
| Autophagous gluttony
|
| Culinary pathology
|
| Dietary butchery
|
| Consuming impulse
|
| Excrete your corpse to be… |