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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.