Sand Meat

Silver pocket watches made of sand
Hover above the hermit’s hand.

He walks along the grinning shore
Beaming at the sight of his prize whore

The clockwork leads his puppet feet
Through miles and miles of human meat.

The world around him breaths aloud
Making a parody in every cloud.

He runs the sand across his face
Washing away all disgrace.

The whore smiles through jaded eyes
As the hermit, a prophet, laughs and dies.

Alone, among the meat of man,
The whore took flight and ran, and ran.

Growing spider legs from beneath her neck
She crawled along the world-ship-deck.

And all-the-while she must’ve thought,
“Why won’t all this meat just rot?”

But what the whore did not know
Was that the meat could grow and grow.

Yet still the whore thought to herself
A world that grows dusty on a shelf

And with her narrow mind and thick thighs
She crumbled beneath the worry lies

The world reared back and gave a sigh,
Said it to the universe,
“`Tis not often that I ask WHY?”