Rotisserie Poem by Mark Sebert

sometimes i feel like i am on a rotisserie
the heat and the pressure is all but increasing
as i rotate my dilemma comes full circle
it seems all of sudden, i need a miracle,
but my hope is dashed by the seasoning,
sprinkled light and evenly, the smell
of burning flesh enters brushing my nose hair,
tickling my insides on fire, I hear the sharpening
whisk, whisk, whiskey would be nice
to ease the pain of chopping and slicing,
my flesh is now darkened like the tents of Kedar
dark and dusky, tanned golden browned -
ready, I scream but nothing comes out
not even blood which is in a bucket
with all my insides, the vivid evisceration
has long been passed, i see a man eating my
tongue, strange imagination as he cooks
my liver, and chills my spine. I should be dead.
my consciousness goes numb, this can't be real
the pain subsides as I wake up to reality -


The bucket of entrails is in the corner as I gnaw
on my own tongue, the liver is about done.