Roasted Hog,

basted and the cut, succulent,

dripping fat on the stoked

fires, upon which I feel

the burn

like flesh deposits crinkle

and leave me with crackling

on my back,

a taste of cooked meat

hangs in the air, sickly and putrid,

a cannibalised flesh, rotten

now from the inside out,

so bad that even a black fly stops and hovers

for a while and refuses to land,

no blue bottles, just maggots

upon my skin

today.

 

Ian D. Hall 2018