With a hose No one will ever find you The smell of your carrion hangs low in the street Weeks of returning to relax in the meat Butchery/morgue meets day-spa retreat The smell of the carnage Begin the excretement Choice picked tidbits of ligaments I mix for an afternoon sludge soup Constantly craving, needing to eat shit No escape from this place Life condemned to rot Pulpy ulcerous filaments Gagged snot and clots