By Parson Thru
He walked into the bar.
At the tables sat the usual faces,
mulling their drinks.
Each bottle and glass was covered in sticky
The walls were spattered with fresh blood
and small pieces of flesh.
In a space on the floor between the tables
lay a torso.
Naked, bloody and ragged.
From its shoulders and hips trailed the wet ends
of nerves and ligaments.
The face, seemingly intact, wore the expression
of someone delivering a homily.
The drinkers were engrossed in a discussion
of morals and ethics.
They seemed oblivious to the state of the room.
He quietly closed the door
and walked on to the next bar.