by Nick Gisburne
The palest of the devils is the worst.
A slimy, silver sickness smears his flesh.
Infections, as he bites the bodies, burst,
The milk of muffled screaming, foaming, fresh.
He vomits on a mutilated corpse,
But laps the acid filth for which he yearns.
The blistering behemoth’s belly warps.
Within it, every victim boils and burns.
The toxin-tainted slivers of his teeth
Are speckled with the maggots of the meal.
He spits their sludge, a rancid, writhing wreath,
Upon the palsied pilgrims he will peel.
And wrapped around the palest devil’s horn,
The shrivelled skins of babies never born.
