by Nick Gisburne
The Ganx are fiends, protective of their food.
They eat alone, in sealed, secluded rooms.
Their seven stomachs, twisted tight, exude
A poison paste, and foul, infectious fumes.
When supper struggles, screaming for release,
With grisly glee the Ganx will play along,
Excited that in each delicious piece
The taste of desperation will be strong.
Instinctively, before they sink to spawn,
Inseminated mothers share the seed
Of males, their mates, consumed before the dawn,
The only public feast at which they feed.
Another generation joins their ranks.
Voracious. Vicious. Ravenous. The Ganx.
