Kong Strike

Little could be recognised after the massacre.
In eyeshot and periphery, the carcasses of a
war of starvation strewn about a porcelain
battlefield - no knowledge of name or nature;
code or creed; anthems float like hot air -
rising far above where a man can breathe.

Pasta is divided to the very starch -
bloody cheese stained stubbornly to the plate;
the rib - baked - is now chewed bone, cartilage
decorates this porcelain cemetery -

a battle of knife and fork waged for hunger's price -
greedy mercy demands but a morsel remains.

As for I, belly stretched beyond what my pants may
hold, mouth scarred from this midnight feast, a victim, too.
War takes no prisoners - and I, settling in a tomb of sheets
and pillows, rigor mortis visits me with flowers and tribute.