A BAROLO ESCAPADE
In the best interest of the over extravagantly priced vacation home, I cup the slabs of the freshest recent victim upon the marble fucking countertops; Fuck it, keep the deposit; I AM IN THE FLESH.
To the wine cellar I deliriously and unhealthily wander, wondering if anyone was going to join me, be with me, ACCEPT ME. But time is ticking like the curse it had become; Being brutally blunt with me; “You are fucking alone!”
So, to the wine cellar already, reminiscing about the hot, rich snatch I once hungered within, and the thought of all of their after world moisture, fucking within the moment.
“TO THE FUCKING WINE CELLAR!” I sense the collection is superior, fixating upon a vintage bottle of Barolo that pleads to be plucked; Grab the “Iron Fist in the Velvet Glove”, a fine Barolo, and get upstairs to get on with your diseased feasting.
Yes, that obsessive, carnivorous disease had begun to haunt me, consume me, control me, making me the heathen I had BECOME.
“Best make sure I indulge deeply.” Out of the wine cellar, back at the tattered marble kitchen counter, properly beginning to decant my fine Barolo, I begin to poetically throw piece after piece of new human I had been preparing down the gullet. I am ill now, wandered in the forest well after the mid night hour and it DEVOURED ME, making me false promises. I would feel nothing. I see into my own regret and anger, as I progressively begin to chomp more and more obsessively upon each salty, bloody piece of recent kill.
“OHHHHHHHH!” I bellow in semi sharp evolving pain, grabbing for a crystal glass to hedonistically throw back my Itailian delight; Barolo, aggressive, seductive, course, rustic, elegant. I nose the glass and timeless juice meticulously, taking in each profound scent and essential character; Acidity that pairs perfectly with that that hearty entrée with a sublime tannic mouthfeel. Earth, depth, exuding a forever memorable persona. I begin to become one within the fresh flesh, cursing the outside illuminated moon, giving it the cursed finger; exclaiming things were going to become one with me; THE DEMONS SOMETIME PREVAILS.