My goodness Lord Maggot! Your mother needs to change her perfume! I apoligize for the rotten behavior of our resident bad boys. There's another one who hasn't engaged you just yet - wait until you meet Chaz Nasty. I think the two of you will have a lovely time together.

The poem is an inexhorable tugging at the heartstrings. It makes me suddenly aware that the body I inhabit is slowly dying all around me. A phrase that Zen used once in another poem comes to mind. "Meat prison."

My mother tasted like stale tears and violence, thank you.
You think I would be scared off by a pasty little bitch like Fiddlesticks. Wrath, you would taste like candy canes and pixie sticks, I am sure. Fiddlesticks would just taste like failure and lowered expectations.

This poem makes me think of the morbidly slow steps of decay.

Lord Maggot's mom tastes like rancid cottage cheese and sorrow, you idiot. And I'm sure he tastes even worse. I was waiting for him to sound off before leaving a review myself, but I think we ran him off for good. Nicely done, Fiddlesticks, even though I still hate you the way a butthole hates hemorroids.

The repetition of 'step, step, step' in this poem makes it feel like an endless and unstoppable march into death, like lemmings into the sea. You creep me out.

DAMN! Now THIS level of dark is what it's all about Zen man! Stick to your hard core roots! Love it, man, LOVE IT! It is vintage Zen Phoenix!

All that talk about rotting made me throw up in my mouth a little. It tastes awful, like stale beer and pot and Lord Maggot's Mom. What a night...