Pit Weston

Flesh - Poem by Pit Weston

His closet was full,

Of his knicks and knacks,

His pants and his ties,

His shoes and his slacks.

But unlike mine,

And unlike yours,

His closet held,

Just a little bit more.

Secrets grim,

And secrets vile,

Secret one,

Was a young, small child.

Of so many children,

Such a sad little boy,

No mother and no father,

No friends and no toys.

Adam found and snatched the boy,

Along the ocean’s coast.

And with a blade,

The boy was flayed,

And turned into a roast.

He ate the boy,

But not too fast,

He savored every bite.

He finished up,

With blood in a cup,

And drank it with delight.

He used the bones,

To pick his teeth,

Of morsels in the cracks.

He took the remains,

And clothes, blood-stained,

And placed them in a sack.

The taste of flesh,

was all still there,

he smelled it where he went.

And secret two,

Was nothing new,

A woman he once met.

At the bar,

She sat alone,

Just nursing on a beer.

And here came Adam,

And she found his handsome,

And asked him to sit near.

After drinks,

He took her back,

To his house,

Just down the street.

And once inside,

He must decide,

How to make the night complete.

He went upstairs,

And yelled her name,

And she answered to his call.

He grabbed her arm,

To cause her harm,

And pinned her to the wall.

With a hammer and nail,

He pounded twice,

And drove them through her wrist.

With her body jerking,

And his face smirking,

He leaned in for a kiss.

He kissed her cheeks,

Then ate her lips,

Her meat was so ever lean.

He chewed the flesh,

That was so fresh,

And licked his fingers clean.

The girl was dead,

All drenched in blood,

A hole inside her chest.

He grabbed her liver,

To eat a sliver,

And swore to eat the rest.

Her body was limp,

But Adam was not,

He craved for something more.

He took his stance,

And dropped his pants,

And went in for the score.

Secret three,

And secret four,

Were just like,

One and two.

And secret five,

Is still alive,

And hopes to make it through.

Now after five,

YOU could be six,

and suffer the same fate.

So run away,

But if you stay,

You’ll end up on his plate.

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Poem Submitted: Thursday, August 12, 2010

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