With a hose

No one will ever find you

The smell of your carrion hangs low in the street

Weeks of returning to relax in the meat

Butcherymorgue meets day-spa retreat

The smell of the carnage

Begin the excretement

Choice picked tidbits of ligaments

I mix for an afternoon sludge soup

Constantly craving, needing to eat shit

No escape from this place

Life condemned to rot

Pulpy ulcerous filaments

Gagged snot and clots