Our resident poet Nigel Parkin gives us some SHOCKing sonnets and horrifying haikus.
It’s funny – death compels us to pursue the pleasures we might otherwise deny. We’ve opened bottles of long-cellared wine And crowned our heads with bacchanalian wreaths And as we sit and watch the rats consume All that we once held dear we drink and stare And let the lusts of last days rise and sing. I push my hand under my neighbor’s skirt, Hungry for her flesh and feel the lesions On her inner thigh swelling to my touch. And from his perch I know he watches us, Stirred by our revels, waiting for his feast. So spread yourself upon our table first, Before you give your moonlight skin to him.