The Feast is Yet to Come

the feast is yet to come

alabastrine eyes impale each suitor

her vantage by the punchbowl dripping ruby

from a slender crack that widens oh it widens

and from within an arm unfolds rugose and insectile

to eviscerate and then it disembowls, is here is there

and leaves behind an empty glass or nothing while she stares

unblinking with her eyes of alabaster and her body filled with burning

beauty till only one remains and him she summons with a scent like gunpowder

and he wavers, falls, crawls through bloody broken glass, writes his epitaph in slugtrail

curves and smears but when he reaches her she lifts and drinks and tosses him an appetiser only.