They thrashed as though
melting plastic was held up to their eyes,
shouting fearful obscenities.
Now, they hide unknowingly
under my porch, nestling together while they rot-
my little collection of screaming lambs.
I kept morbid trophies-priceless artifacts—
(so that, long after their blood stopped running down my arms,
I would still remember the aroma of their untainted skin):
a lipstick tube
a driver's license
a baby doll- oh how adorable-
and a fingernail or two.
See how the body can betray,
letting in filth and cowardice:
corpse cheese and bursting tissue
maggots comfortably inhabiting the skull
black putrefaction and creamy flesh
it's as tragic as a slaughterhouse
and only the carcass beetles care to mourn you
as they savagely eat your ashes