The door to the dank, dark wine cellar
Flung open as space split wide,
Bled more a stank so rank and stellar,
An embrace – a hit – of something that had died.
Still I stepped down atop that creaking stair
– ‘Twas so warped by moldy dew –
And as a new-leapt bird streaking through the air
The rot uncorked – I hacked – and instinct told me what to do.
Every clenching inch of my revolted body
Then struck me with a crippling spasm;
For that wrenching stench unbolted, and did embody
A fluid muck, a fetor rippling, oozing from that chasm.
So, with a sense of urgency, I pivoted a full one-eighty
And tried to make my way back from the top-most stair –
But the stink so dense gave no clemency, it riveted so greatly,
Just as the nether-slide I took that day, ‘twas impossible to forbear.
For the pine beneath my tattered-boot cracked,
And fell I with such a sudden drop,
So direct a line, a straight-down chute, to be attacked
By a stinking shine, a coughing clutch, I fell with a putrid plop.
I tumbled down like a sack of guts,
Sloshing and flopping whole my fall,
I rumbled – splattered – back slashed by cuts,
Blood-shower washing, flesh-scraps dropping, crying my sad call.
Then o’er echoed such a sound, one never to be forgotten
One which resonates, reverberates, and ricochets in my ears;
A thud I can’t let go – head hitting the ground – soaked in the rotten
Stench – that perforates; sound – that retaliates; stays throughout my years.
My neck then popped and shook when I lifted my head,
As if a newborn child, clawing from the womb;
I was a wreck, my heart stopped, when I took a look at the dead
Thrashed, and torn – as if by something wild, gnawing – body in that tomb.
There, perched above the spoiled flesh, like a feasting, feral hound,
There sat and sipped, bit and nipped the master of the homestead.
I lurched, recoiled -sharp as a bee sting – and upward did I bound;
Again, I slipped, on skin like dampened plaster, which from the corpse did shed.
The master, in his dining clothes, chuckled, glugged, and grinned
As he took another bite from the mushy, rotting muscle;
Then, even faster, chomped three toes, and swigged some blood like wind;
And I so shook ‘pon seeing that his slushie was made of my friend Russel.
But my employer then called to me “Come now, Butler, see!
I have a plate set for you, and some cutlery!
I know he was your dearest friend, but I beg you to dine
Upon his flesh, and sip his blood which I’ve fermented into wine!”