a lonely maggot, eating his way through the big-toe.
He chews slowly and resolutely at the firm skin...
softening with the days, getting more supple... more juicy

The worm pulsates with every step he takes, up the calf and up the leg
A red line as a slug-trail after him, following him...
his tiny teeth gnawing away at the flesh... the food

A wedding between nature and demise, a walk up the isle.
A pulse in the leg, a pulse of digestion. Pellets of excrement.
To the sex. Meaty parts. No bone. Only... juicy food

A cold platter, a slab of post-raw meat, all you can eat.
Sitting alone at the buffet, his work cut out for him... by him.
Taking the pleasure trail onwards and upwards... inwards.

For a brief moment he pauses, contemplating and fearing.
Wondering why.
And then his gut makes him aware. And he takes a bite.

His path has become soft, almost liquid. And he feels like an eel would.
Each bite bigger and fuller. Each bite easier and quicker.
He feels as if he has crossed a hill, everything is downhill from there.

Ambition rises in him. His bites become more violent. haste.
Even though the flesh is sweet and moist. He doesn't realise. He eats.
He swells with passionate ambition. And he eats.

Coming to the hardest muscle. Challenging its structure and fighting. Eating
Each bite more resigned, each effort more concise.
Until he has crossed it, triumphant.

His path is long and now narrow. Only one way to go.
feeling so close, so proud and so tired...
mouth still working and bit by bit he keeps on.

edging past the mouth, crispy flakes on liquefied lips.
sliding past the nose, across the bridge.
where he stops.

mouth exhausted.
belly full.
He sleeps.

He flies away.