Phobophile - Cryptopsy

In the kitchen

With a screaming triple amputee…

Its completion depends solely

On my needs…

Said amputee’s stumps

Are my way of saying… «Thank you

Just for being you.»

Its fear tastes better than its limbs.

Terror of morality

I draw from the slowly dying damned

Monsters live behind my eyes;

I let them out and people die.

And all the grave worms

That come for their piece of meat?

I give them dead things.

The wretched living are mine alone

Fright mounts with the body count

To which anthropomancy predicts a decline

In all of God’s creation,

Can there be a lifestyle that’s better than this?

I mark my territory

With their blood and excritement

And adipocere…

I can find my way in the dark;

My fulfilment is habitually necromanic

And anal abusive.

Seen through the eyes of a mortician

They’ve «caught"me, as they call it;

My teeth and my semen have betrayed me.

Nevermore!

Tests to gauge my rationale,

The likes of which these feeble minds have

Never seen.

Rorschach blotters,

My responses to which inspire fear…

From my lizard side,

The amoral alien speaks;

«These aren’t butterflies,

I see a face I’d like to burn.»

Obfuscation

Of the authorities with lies,

And my natur

Alability to charm and be me,

Or whoever they want;

I’ve known all minds by divine right.