In my waxen world, time stands still Forever frozen like flies trapped in amber One perfect moment preserved, just ere the kill Gruesome atrocities transfixed in horrors chamber Poetry without motion, figures stranded midstream Waxen players in this dark drama of the macabre Mouths agape with terror but breathless to scream No death rattle heard, nor parting sors... I am preserver of life through my morbid art For each mannequin was truly alive from the start So if the eyes seem to follow your gaze as you gawk Know that in the eyes of the dead, in their shadow you walk... Cadavers molded in wax as their lives buried away More preening puppets to perform in the scenes that I play Features cast in the moment of dying preserved How they screamed as they met with their fates well deserved... WAXWORK Recreating the horror of the moment of death My models serve their purpose quite well Embalm their bodies in wax, capture their dying breath Drain the fluids to stave off the smell Like dolls that dance to their own funeral dirge They play out their death scenes interminably As prized their exhibits in my dark reserve They unfold their secrets only to me Life eternal in wax was their deaths decree Suffering for my art, they surrendered to me So when their eyes lock with your gaze Look unflinchingly at death or turn away fast... Skin blistered and softened as it was coated and sealed away Another preserved puppet to prance on the strings that I play The fear ensnared in their captive countenances Ive trapped Mummified and memorialised in wax wellwoven and wrapped... WAXWORK So sit still in your place at the end of the blade By my design, deaths hand find you just out of reach Another player in this deathly silent world that I have made Devoid of sound, fury or motion, sense, movement or speech Awaiting a terminus that never will come Youre a marionette bound by my strings Trussed in this tomb of wax, your time here is not done For time does not quite end all things... This is my lifes work, this still, silent place A monument to the fear frozen in a cold, waxen face Take care not to stare into their eyes, whatever you do When you look deep into death, it sees back into you too... Flesh bubbled and scalded, as this molten bath washed life away Wax covered my stillscreaming prey Another piece for my prizing, recast in my mold Features harden and set as the wax grows stiff and cold... WAXWORK Pernicious A ghastly Gordian quandary to elucidate Pestiferous A nebulous necrotic novelty to navigate Labyrinthine A contumely carnal conundrum to cogitate Serpentine An exulcerated entanglement to execrate... Hands stained and filthy from digging deep for the answer That lies at the heart of the matter of splatter... Eschatological The grave matters with which we struggle Pathological The perverse perpetuation of this purulent puzzle Repugnant The wretched riddle unravels in a reeking revelation Repulsive The final fetid farce yields such a rancid realization Now your morbid curiosity may finally be answered Deep in the heart of the matter of splatter... A morbid matter on which to meditate or mutilate A deathly detail to deliberate and desiccate A sombre study in which sagacity is tantamount to insanity An insalubrious interest in the inhumed and the unsanitary... An unhealthy pursuit of the purulent and parturient A feculent fixation upon the fetid filth and excrement An exhaustive examination of the excreted and the exhumed A tireless appetite to hill the silt atop the tomb... Nebulous The sanguineous solution is seldom seen before the last Amorphous Seemingly always six deep feet beyond your grasp Funereal Carnal cartography to chart the course of lifes denouement Corporeal The wretched revelation that you sought proves harder to swallow Than youd thought... That anatomy is destiny is the unforgiving answer Culled from the heart of the matter of splatter... Scalpels cleave and reave though crimson rivulets Weaving their cold and malignant minuets Carving out funereal figures in arcane alphabets Scars that will never heal or forget... Like puzzle pieces, set askew, youve come undone The bleeding is ceaseless, youre turning blue, the end had begun Set down in writing, flesh, blood and bone, let death be done The pen is as mighty as the sword, sticks or stones, your end would be cast In stone, by either one... Tenderly thanatographical threads are tread and traced Boiling blood will serve to warm this cold clinical embrace A clean precise cut to mark this morbid meeting place This knife point where you and death came face to face... The slab starts to spin around and around, as I take your hand in mine We move step by step within, without so much as a sound, deaths dark design In time A slice to the left, then cut back to the right, movements scripted in this Dance of the dead Motions so deft, recalled by touch not by sight, footprints encrypted by Blood running red... A pirouette on razors edge leaves you breathless The slab plays host to an incisive macabre ballet A savage, slicing slaughter of the senses Now splayed... UNDER THE KNIFE your death hangs in the balance, on the edge of the blade REMEMBER EVERY SLICE of this jigsawed demise, and every part that I payed COLD STEEL BURNS LIKE ICE leaves you dancing on nothing, loosed by Unsteady hands UNDER THE KNIFE The caress of steel, just before the end... Just before the end... A bleeding patchwork design, in running scarlet writ Connected wounds intersecting from slit to bloody slit Such a tangled web of shreds and scars Ive knit The liquid of life, leaks out through the red at your wrists... May I have this last dance? As I take your last breath With a final flick of my wrist ... UNDER THE KNIFE your death hangs in the balance, on the edge of the blade REMEMBER EVERY SLICE of this jigsawed demise, and every part that I payed COLD STEEL BURNS LIKE ICE leaves you dancing on nothing, loosed by Unsteady hands UNDER THE KNIFE The caress of steel, just before the end... 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 Ill 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 youre forcefed your own flesh If you dont eat up, youre 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 theres 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 halfeaten torso gorged to the glut Piece by piece you are fed the chicest cuts As the dinnerbell 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 Whats eating you? The question seems to moot Scraping chunks of your feet out of your bloodsoaked 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... 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 Ill be stuffing your face with tonight Puking up your own skin, just to devour it again Is a treat youll 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 selfdissection Clutch at grume inside your bowels with halfeaten 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 Halfeaten 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... All the worlds indeed a corpse, and we are merely maggots Dead on arrival is our only course, and if the toe fits, tag it Sycophants, were writhing blind, feeding off each others regurgitation Disgorging whatever waste we find, breeding our degradation with each Exhalation... Lambs to the slaughter Feast of fools upon the fodder No trompe loreil to behold Just a wretched drama to unfold... Gnarled within this mortal coil Within which the voracious feebly toil Enamored of our own disease We revel in our own grotesqueries... Dissecting ourselves to find nothing alive Just a mass of perversely animated pieces Nothing within worthwhile to revive Were mired kneedeep in our own fetid feces Gorging our gnawing jaws with our own pathological waste Like grubs wriggling in the rank feast of decay We grind our own bones into dust each futile step we take As we inch unseeing through day after day... Consumer or consumed We all end up as chyme and grume Upon the fetid mass we choke Leaving us in no position to appreciate the sick joke... Twisted through this mortal coil Now our unctuous desserts are brought to a boil Somewhere between the living and the deceased We gag on the feast of our grotesqueries... Too consumed by consumption to see our own ends Were all dead and only getting deader Digging our own graves into which we gladly descend In this cold coil were shackled and fettered As we ingest each others waste, in a frenzied feeding rush Leaving everything sick and dead in our wake Devouring each other in ravening, unheeding crush As we gorge ourselves on all the tripe and offal we can intake... Crass menagerie Eschatological estuary We create each others atrocities In this grotesquery Asphyxiated by this mortal coil Reaping rancid fruits long since despoiled Until our depraved lives at last surcease Well hunger for more grotesqueries...
wax, death, grotesquery, culinary, ingest