by David Hollywood
Sculptured slaughter into art,
Let me shapen you a part,
From stench foamed forms, that’s cut by craft,
To feed a craving, drooling heart.
At butchers tables set for free,
To show what do I want to have for me,
My visit forms a search to see,
What beast falls to my custody.
And downward knife draws flesh that’s mine,
It’s proudly sliced as meat, in prime,
Ensures what’s slain, shall taste sublime,
Disguising all the grime of slime.
The stains upon the butchers floor,
Blend all the entrails mixed with gore,
From animals whose guts were sore,
Just at the time they were no more.
But putrid smells of relished lust,
For foods still fresh, from lives’ that gushed,
In favour of aesthetic cuts,
Made succulent as meals, robust.
And blood that spurt‘s from tender slice,
Will savour tastes enhanced, entice,
As moistened meat upon my plate,
Was carved to feed the slice I ate.
Bowels raw are savoured, read ,
For signs of finest feasts’ cuisine,
The entrails for a gourmet, fed,
Denies the tastes are food obscene.
Sharpened hunger turns to greet,
Death in flesh, sense carcassed piece,
I’ll dine content to know as meat,
My appetite is now replete.
Inspired to eat, my cravings yearn,
For cultured tables, my concern,
Where blood bathed lives that I transform,
By massacres that show, inform,
I am refined to eat all beasts,
When hosting at my gory feasts,
My innards swell to prove at least,
I swallowed animals deceased.
Last updated October 20, 2011