nietzsche

Happy Devil's Night and Happy Halloween!



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to be eaten.

my paws are dirty.
cotton and mud.
fine once,
the fur slips a little
tiny lambchild underneath.

once fine,
now eaten
struck a chord
such a little thing
to be devoured.
the mouth that finds you
salivating some
the lips blue from hunger.
i lay paralyzed
somewhat exposed
my fur matted with saliva
he starts with the skin strips,
little curls of peach coming off
a bit wet-
liquid red-
nature's butter.
i was fine once,
i think
saw leaves and streams and things.
now i lay crooked
limbs askance
didn't mark it as a problem
closed my lids
yellow eyelight runs out.

it stings some-
to be eaten.
devoured.
fed to another.
the muscle tears clean
from tar bones.
he licked each rib separate.
a bit cold to be sure.
i watched in my head
somewhat like a film strip,
sections choppy,
others clear.

once in awhile
i heard a splintering sound
i imagine he enjoyed this most.
he licked and pulled-
gnawed and drooled-
moist chunks falling between his teeth.
he ate these scraps last
no wasting here.
organ meat
his delicacy,
liver first
awkward to divulge
i think he ripped it out
with a sharpened claw.
hard to tell,
how the pieces fit
as they are falling out.
lungs fatty and blackened
cajun to taste-
much like okra
and cayenne.
visceral soup.

these intestines pink
like a young boy
he wrapped these around
my tibia
squishy kebabs.
he ate them the slowest.
my heart he savored
plucked the strings slowly
deep ocean blue and crimson tides
beat inside.
stop the rivers' flow
drip down his throat
these heartbeats chewed up
and swallowed.

I was fine once.
until my eyeballs
were ripped away
and eaten like a sucking candy-
lolling about in his hot mouth,
tumbling like rocks
down his gullet.
he will feel these the longest.
i think he saved my mouth for last.
took a kiss
lifelessly given
nibbled a bit on the pull away,
spit out a few spare skin flakes
that sank into the snow
like dainty moth wings
torn from the source.

I was fine once.
now only fur and paw prints remain.
it's snowing, I would imagine.
within minutes
those last traces
will be buried
as mother winter's dirty secret.



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Photography by Michael Park