by Nick Gisburne
A burning bride illuminates the room.
A stench, a smoking sickness, fills the space.
The flesh of angels, roasted in the womb,
Congealed, is draped with battered, bloody lace.
A tapestry of tongues absorbs the fat,
The greasy gravy dripping from the plates.
A stew, a slaughter, simmers in a vat,
The bodies long surrendered to their fates.
A crawling corpse, a creature, pulls us in.
We bring our private poisons from the bar.
The appetiser, scalded strips of skin,
Reminds us this is Evil’s Abattoir.
I find no way, no reason, to rejoice.
The menu? Not a single vegan choice.
