The hardened, slimy, empty shell of a mollusk,

lacking in showered valleys of red clay and blue

breaths. Forced dusted decay finds life in a Pollock.

All for you to cower in a new home, poor worm without muscle.

I’d say cling with all your might to light,

but lanterns in trees hold no regard

for you who cut and spit them down. 

You Hannibal you, you mad Mads Mikkelsen.

With my flesh in your teeth and no light for trees,

accost me.

For no mistake can escape your fine-tuned perversion.

Start with my eyes, down my chin, and along my jaw, carve across

my face and whet this warm red globe,

you butcher, and make me one friendly foe.