Dust. Sometime in november
I'm situated on my bed - sleepless.
Out of the kitchen
is the smell of fresh
cooking blood, blowing
I'm stumbling in the living room
and see the girl
Mutilated!
Skin and muscles were peeled from her face.
Eye-balls are hanging on the visual-nerve
out of the cavern.
You nearly can not bitter the chest
which looks like minced meat, from the neck.
I'm trying to make a stew out of the girl
A frustrating task.
In the afternoon
I'm passing my time
smearing her flesh all over the walls.
Chewing skin-stripes that
I tear from her body
That's my reality!
Later, maggots are swarming
over the human savage already,
the slaver from my lips runs over her.
And I don't know it
I do it in the right way.
