I'm
cooking
the
carnage,
the
Beelzebub
Soup
-
the
unrinseable
red
of
the
claw,
of
the
tooth.
Drips
dry,
half-sticky,
in
the
heat
of
the
stove;
my
knife
sinks
uncleanly
through
gristle
and
bone.
And
now
brimming
bloody,
the
vapouring
pot
seems
set
on
by
ghosts
come
to
watch
themselves
clot
in
dark
sultry
spices,
in
blue
spectral
flame
and
I
ask
– 'Aren't
you
glad
that
I've
got
your
remains?
'I
won't
grill
you
dry
till
your
flanks
are
like
leather
-
like
artist
and
artwork
we'll
glory
together.'
In
the
dim,
in
the
candlelit
kitchen
before
me
the
spirits
reduce
to
just
one
scowling
genie
in
silken
red
robes
and
a
turban-shaped
head;
his
purpling
frown
seems
to
augur my
death.
I
shudder
and
hold
up
a
spoon
like
a
cross
'I'm
a
damned
vegetarian,'
cry
I,
'You
ass!
'This
around
me
is
beet,
nothing
more
than
mere
roots
-
I
pretend
I'm
carnivorous-beastish
for
hoots.'
He
glares
at
me,
eyes
red
as
beetroot-red
fire
He
opens
his
mouth
and
it
yawns
ever
wider
-
the
inside
I
see
is
the
velvety
hue
of
his
ruby-fleshed
worshippers
and
of
my
stew.
And
gulping
me
whole he
avenges
his
kind.
Then
he
washes
me
down
with
a
beetroot-red
wine.
*
(I wrote this one evening after
making
beetroot
soup while
listening
to
King
Crimson)
