Enjoying the Meathook
First poem, or anything, in a long time...thanks for your patience. I know maybe it's rough, but I am trying to get started again. Happy Halloween.
I love the steel sting as I watch him carving my friend, and I cannot wait for my turn, unless I yank myself off this thing. When he picked me up, I did not scream. I surrendered, pulled an erection, and orgasmed when he hung me from the back with a thick meathook plunged between my shoulders. "Oh, thank you, God!" I cried. This is so symbolic of life in the world; pain is so common, it becomes a type of pleasure. There is nothing wrong with surrendering to an unpalatable situation. What is wrong is giving up. So, I do not give up. I do not enjoy watching my friend being carved, even though I enjoy sadistic pleasure, and even though I am fucking nuts. I do have a warped "heart". Grabbing the end of the hook with my hands somehow, I pull up, and with a wrenching howl, I rip my spine apart leaping from my debacle of a platform, and wrestle the thing down to the ground. The horrid stench of gasoline, blood, death, and the end mix in with the moments of life that are the most alive, because I am fighting, dying but fighting. Ripping the chainsaw from his Lennie-like hands, I gut him, watching his Welch's ground beef splatter all over me, and my toasted friend. With a great howl, I leap, and race out of the death shack, blood spattering, but soul, and heart flying. The next moments will be a gift, a testament to my courage, and a worship to never giving in.