My appetite overreached me.
Hungering approval and starving to flee,
I ate my mother.
My father was feeding on
roast beef when his turn came.
I finished the potatoes when he was gone.
Raw parent does not satisfy for long.
Each generation that is bred
must cannibalise the one before.
Then renewal may occur. The dead
are meat, and recycled.
I have swallowed them, and they
in turn devour me. When I turn
my mother's eyes display,
peering from the back of my head. My father
uses my voice to rave and vent,
his child a living echo
in this world of his disappointment.