Backyard calls my name
In the night.
Asks me why I kill?
What do I tell?
I like the smell of
Raw flesh?
The sound of oozing
Blood?
How I wanna give
Sharp metals a better
Purpose? or
My own lust has its
Way to manifest me
A greater revelation?
Ohh! It's such a
Pristine compulsion.
What do I tell it?
Can it even understand
The gravity of passion?
What a rush it is to
Isolate a subject.
Stab them in the heart.
Drain out all the blood
Through just an ooze.
Run out of breath in the
Act. Feel hungry as hell
After that.
Then roast just the
Liver on low flame with
Just salt and pepper-
To feel my art on
My tongue.
Ohh! Great art is all
Hunger and food.
Passion translating into
Juicy fetish in your
Mouth-
Good art is a
Roasted liver for
The fancy of one's
Taste buds.