acid rite rune

I squint from the light glare of the polished metal.

He exhales as I draw the blade across his flesh.

A straight line, fine and ghastly emerges.

I plunge my hands into his fetid depths,

remove the wailing mass from his abdomen.

The parasite screams. It lands with a splash

in the acid vat.

The corrosive liquid sizzles as it melts flesh into muddy sludge,

extinguishes the succours. My brain understands

the barbaric language of desperate agony.

I butcher his carcass. The soft tapping of the cleaver

on the mottled butcher block is a balm to my brain, like a midnight rain.

I feed the flesh to the ravenous hobos--

who push their purloined shopping carts through the urine soaked streets--

who murder widows for the acid rain stained clothes lines they use

to string up their blue tarpaulin homes--

leaving bleached white shirts and panties to soak

the earth-toned filth of the streets.

They grin toothlessly at me, human grease dribbling down their beards

salt and pepper from hard living and brown from bourbon.

I throw his bones into the vat,

the lid seals shut with a clang.

After two weeks, I click the cleaned bones between aluminum tongs.

The femurs, skull, radii, ulnas, metatarsals, and spine

form the sinister rune of homage to the black goat god.

I dip the diamond encrusted chalice in the vat. I lift

it to my lips. The fatal draught cascades down my throat.

My body burns down through my bowels--

the abyss sparks through my anus.

I change into a pillar of charcoal, a furnace

emanating warmth for the wretched.