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.
