Notes About The Poem
abundant in cliches - my audience going 'of course', and whole heartedly, in their facetious nature, named the poem with a TSK! TSK! TSK! Enjoy!
The Idiot Who Left the Fire
Flesh was falling from the bone,
clumps of flyblown steak,
rippling the glass surface below
its reflection fragmented in the lake
bloods oily residue hanging in long tendrils,
leaving a stringy mucus in its wake,
coagulated, and black, it stained the decayed clothes
of the phantom, as it moved across the lake.
Campers unbeknownst, they tarried by the fire,
laughing and enjoying their night,
the firelight a homing beacon for the spectre
moving towards the light
as nature calls one left the circle
and entered into the woods
the wraith shifting its focus
deviating - an end; all likelihood
it found its target and extended its fingers
inserting them at the base of the neck
blood curdling screams were released
as the pain disseminated - oh heck!
it lifted the man off his feet by his skull
and flicked it with an echoing snap
and tore the man apart
from his shoulders to his lap
The revellers around the fire
did question the ear shattering cry
and stood to call out to their friend
who was "supposedly" nearby
Not a sound was uttered,
no response came to their ear
as the spectre was engorging on
the flesh, its lips a red smear.
Tearing the meat from the bones,
and sucking them clean
the discarded pile of the friend rising
as it drinks the man's spleen
The eye balls, the brain,
the sweet breads came last
like a delicate treat, he savoured these
tasting the lymphoblast
and licking his fingers
he sighed in delight -
for the entree was satisfying -
but dinner was by the fire light.
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