-Wish Fulfillment-
Image prompt credit:
<a href="http://goponygo.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/devian_art/INTOLERANCE.jpg">http://goponygo.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/devian_art/INTOLERANCE.jpg</a>
 
oh my sweet my precious one
swift drunken with your odor, tantalized
 
I still taste you in my mouth; I wonder if you're real somewhere
if when you awake you still feel my teeth at your throat
if when you awake you check to see if your arm is still there
 
remembering each emburned rubied moment together
delightful demolition of your architecture
twisting coils against the inside of the skull
scales scraping, sliding in fervent need; reptilian intoxication
 
oh yes, my anonymous darlings, so many many times, I've killed you in my dreams.
 
-Light Play Before Dinner-
 
opening a cask of your wine
self-made,
fermenting on the rough tongue of hunger
luxuriate in rich sanguinary sensuality
slick and sliding talons penetration like sex but so much better
tongue slides into a coil of intestine, teeth following
soft rubbery, cephalopod-ish
reach deeper, take hold around the wet writhing knot
weakly squishing yet twine-tough and resistant
but a good solid yank is all it takes
and then
it all
spills
out
into my lap
and suddenly I'm in no mood to play anymore
suddenly the fire can't reach the proper temperature fast enough
suddenly playtime is over
it's time to butcher dinner.
 
-A Certain Unity of Subject and Canvas-
 
ever-expanding tracery
pinned and pinioned, suspended immobile
the canvas slowly fills
wiping away the leakage to continue the etching
oops, too deep
oh well, work with what you've got
now the sleek shining inside serpents pull forth
glistening, beckoning
stretch and twine them, place them carefully
spiraling down the left leg, tied in a cheery bow at the foot --
that speaks, don't you think?
oh, shut up --
you just don't know art when you see it.
really, you ought to be honored.
what? anesthesia?
did you use anesthesia when you played -your- little games?
that's what I thought.
why should I waste perfectly good drugs on /you/?
now stop bothering me;
I'm working.
besides, didn't you tell me before that you always wanted to be famous?
who's going to forget you once they find you?
oh, don't worry -- they'll find you.
now, I need your larynx, so you'll just have to --
ah, there we go.
silence
save the soft soughing and rustling of wind on oak-leaves
and the encouragements of the night-birds
clicking of bones from the sacrifices hanging in the branches above;
I think every artist needs good ambience.
 
-Dieter's Ultimate Shortcut-
 
kinetic addiction
raptureality of ripping and razors
throwing my arm like a dart
shivering at the sweet resistance
of living muscle
flexing my own to rip the blade free
taste freedom on the tongue
at some point,
stabbing morphed into
digging
not excavation or exploration
no curiosity this time
just the fountain-play of a delighted child
brought to a new water-park
puckered skin tasting the warmth
of your innermost essence
drying on my face
dripping from my hair
delectably stuck
metallic and inciting to the tongue
dance with me
your head, my boot?
it'll by fun -- ever wanted to be a human firework?
rice-krispy crackle of shattered ribs pressed
again, again ... !
twisting my faithful tool
in this fruitful earth-moving
that sanguinary sensation,
the cloak of bloody contentment,
rests on my shoulders now
as I hollow you out
my personal pumpkin
there you go!
isn't it nice
to lose so much
weight?
you should be thanking me ...
 
-Bled Offerings-
Used prompt phrase 'futhark and dragonspark' plus a word bank that I apparently did not save.
 
garbled incoherencies
scrawled scrolling across the vinyl wall
of the sacrifice's mind
an embryonic inkling of its predicament
suddenly flickered, sparked, caught
and flamed into full awareness
of being in deep shit.
 
the catalyst of this abrupt understanding
must have been the knife
as it grated across its sternum
its torso gyrated stiffly as it struggled
but the goatskin leather bonds held easily
against its weak efforts.
 
its reaction was inconvenient
but thanks to my foresight
made no detriment to the ritual
though it did force me to reconstruct
some aspects of the sacred design
I was cutting into its chest
and abdomen.
 
underground
one cannot tell the time of day
but I was not bereft of light
to work under;
three chandeliers of predator's bones
and their spiral candles
provided plenty of illumination.
 
as the last rune took shape
on the hapless man-thing's chest
I felt a subtle electrical snap
as if overcharged needles
had replaced the molecules of the air
immediately I fell to my knees
before my bleeding tied-prone offering,
elated:
the Spark!
 
a phantom howl shuddered the candle-flames
embers caught and ate away a patch of air
as if caustic detergent spilt on a sheet of suspended skin
HisHerIts three necks twining in an unholy helix
the great heads emerged
tiny fierce lightnings
burst from the portal's edges.
 
I watched the catastrophic damage
inflicted by my new master
on the body of the sacrifice
out of the corner of my eye;
already,
I was immersed
in the dreams of glory.
 
now
I serve the Oldest One
as its once-mortal agent.
 
can you imagine
the gifts I have received
in exchange for one wasted life?
 
-Brother-
 
I'm a falling rock
an evil twin bereft of reflection
crack open my skull
to look down into the tumbling anthill
of heres and whys and wherefores
collect a cup of controversy
Mansonic aphorisms, Dahmerian dreams
wrapped in poppy leaves
tied in hemp string
a pernicious predator packaged
for your personal perusal.
 
-Blood in the Fog-
temporary shell
seeming innocent and dead
upon the shelf
but a bodiless life sleeps
inside this wolf's skull
holed up snug
waiting for a new night
to issue forth
smoke and bloody shadows
a predatory ghost roaming unseen
hungry eyes grazing your back
 
should he feel the need
he'll drop out of his skull hole
knife-blade wings scissoring quantum non-space
scanning coordinates
for the needed space-time place
 
universal antibody
superstring senses scanning ceaseless
for symbiosis gone bad
leaping on the backs of spiritual cancers
to rip and tear and feed
a negaphagous organism
cleanly efficient.
 
in harmony of spiritual purpose
this ghost and I co-habitate
me in my fleshly body
he in the bony box I provided
after all,
its original owner no longer needed it.
 
-Hook In Mouth-
 
blood
circles
the brain as
a hungry shark
amygdala pulse
slithering sensation
cognitive dissonance from
this forbidden exultation.
what you know and what you want differ.
a jackknife twist pitches me clear from the
murky water hosting the duel
wraiths of zebra-stripe shadows
fall on me as omens
yet, the gallows-cries:
carrion-crows
in my heart
eying
me
with
silent
suspicious
expectation.
storm-born jackal-wolf
running loose in the herds;
ethics don't fill empty guts.
despite all protests and struggles
murder draws me in with hook in mouth.
 
-Rite of Seven Sins-
 
silver veils on Her face,
adorned in retreating storm-clouds,
Her single eye focuses downward
upon this solitary opening
in the black blanket of the canopy,
with the Ancient One, the Oldest Oak,
in the center,
like another eye
gazing back up at Her in adoration,
the abode of Her earthbound Sister,
the Abiding Hunger,
the Ghost Tree.
 
skulls nestled among her roots
pearls cast before the sky-queen's glory
the Maestro of the wind
runs talented fingers across the ossified chimes
hanged from the branches;
this is the real Skull and Bones tomb
human and animal,
all offerings to the Bestial,
hollow like the human heart,
singing at the wind's touch,
wind-chimes of eternity.
like obscene fruit, the skulls
converse and whisper in the breeze,
wraith-voices hissing anticipation.
 
graced by fractal shadows, moon-cast
across his shoulders,
the Ritualist cavorts,
dancing with his knife
and the ghosts
to the Oldest One's soporific heart-song.
 
the sacrifices,
ruiners all,
are leashed to the Tree's roots
in full view of their judging Goddesses,
looking upon them,
knowing their sins.
 
ceasing his dance,
the coyote-skin falls on his shoulders,
and he turns to the Chosen Prey,
neck-tied and helpless.
The Ritualist speaks:
 
eye for eye,
tooth for tooth:
this is the First Law.
by your actions,
you have proven your ethics.
as you have acted,
so shall you be treated.
this is the Justice of the First Sun.
 
grinning his hunger,
the Ritualist proceeds to the First Prey.
humming, needing, wanting,
the wolf-bone knife jumps in hand,
lashing out to bleed, not kill... yet.
thus begins
the Rite of Seven Sins.
 
-Dystonic-
 
this hateful bundle of claws
nicks my skin,
injecting me with longing
to shred yours.
 
in measured silence,
heartfelt violence.
 
-Infalliable-
 
by hatchet,
knife, and lengths of rope, I
have acquired raw materials.
 
it took so many nights of work to
transform my exquisite
new corpses.
 
finally
their alchemical shift
into lovely things is completed.
 
each toothy treasure collected one
after another, all
infallibly.
 
lovingly
stacked, so neatly arranged,
my many mandibled mementos.
 
nearby, a
careful concoction of
coccyx and vertebrae is setting.
 
well envisioned but yet unfashioned,
soon to be my greatest
masterpiece.
 
ribcages
lie scattered awaiting
their chimerical transmutation
 
and I owe this creative bliss to
infallibility,
certainly!
 
-Rat Poison-
 
sometimes there's a spark
fire?
bright scent on the night wind
whuff, yes -- that's what I'm after
neon flicker on the fur
shake my hair
walk south down Market
there he is
short, lithe
little skittish rat-man
hunting for smaller rats
never knowing
I'm watching
I tap his shoulder
he smiles
negotiation
we leave
everything is ratsmell, rat heat, rat sound
I grin, grin, grin
he grins too
he thinks he has me
he learns otherwise when he shuts the car door
somehow
they never think someone openly carrying a knife
would also have a gun
 
I-80
this exit
don't fuck with me
this exit, *now*
yes, into the mountains
route 13 in the inland mountains
back into the backness
back into the first place
 
nothingness to his eyes
green cathedral welcoming me
forbidding him
he is confused, unused to submission
thinks I want money
confused when I won't take it
fear
grinning
good smells
almost time now ...
wind in the leaves overhead
overcast sky
wait -- there!
lightning!
he cringes when I laugh
father roars above
thunderbirds roar back
 
I open the door
I get out
I roar to Father
he gets out, staring, staring
I holster the gun
I say, "Run."
 
he runs
 
leaves whip past my face
twigs
rain pelting pelting
knife in hand
leap
I land on his back
squeal!
 
we land in the dirt
rolling, striking
fighting
heavy
strike
won't get off
strike
strike
strike ... oh
 
empty eyes
push the prey off
wet
soaked in red rat water
smell
stillness
death
hmm
hmm
hmm ...
 
... hungry.
 
-Let Me Out-
 
pace
locked
pacing
tired, so tired
lethargy
CSI
I want to
go
OUT
 
so jealous of the past
 
want to go out
 
want to bathe in the scent
want to go arm-deep in gore
want to roll
want to rend
tear
chew ...
 
rip
drip, drip, drip
 
LET ME OUT
 
-Psychosis-
August '07. Back when I was really truly ill. This isn't a poem so much as a burst of clang associations and wild emotional venting. I didn't remember writing it at the time and still don't but it appeared in my blog one day and it's clearly my work.
 
 
pinshot lover with his grave as a cover tramps all around the countryside but with a swing and a bang he was left to hang with nowhere else to hide
 
bang bang bang watch the windows fall
where is the cover of the aristocratic ball?
help, damnit
find me a match to a bright silken swatch
hidden in the covers while the rain pulses under
creeping crawling hidden in the shadows leaves grasping grab touching
caress of the wet green dead
bones in their fingers
skulls in their eyes
touch them take them smell them hate them
break them down to rubble
break them down to rubble
earthquake shakes the toilet away
 
bright sunshine at the bottom of the mine
eat the gnosis sunshine bright
take the offering from the night
dark violence shines beneath a streetlight
copper soaking into the eyes
shredding teeth, gaping jaws
just behind the flashing claws
the journalist devoured hides in the shower
but nothing is found
on the morrow
 
flee flee
help
find me?
where are you? where did you go?
what is it, is it something you know?
give it back you can't have it
it belongs to me
it came from the bottom of the emptiness sea
it burnt and boiled with no end of trouble
it really ought to be smashed to rubble
smash bang bash
bash the crashing airplane smash
 
closed eye closed thought
writing yes watching not
thinking is a burden
thinking is pain
but there's no way to stop
emptiness stings
 
mist curls around into my nose
cool white clime
cold snow climb
no snow, just bones
and stones
gnarled branches coiling things
shadows darting in a stream
resting sanguine in the branches of the Ghost Tree
waiting for the mist of his breath
walk his wings
know peace
leave his grace
know hell
 
-Ecstacy of Monstrosity-
 
Into the wild head forth with a spear and a knife
stutter
into the abyss
clinging onto the baying doe as it dies
life floods the jaws
heat shudders across the frame
the man dies
ripping into the flesh with the jaws
crush the skin, muscle, ribs, sternum
Smash through
tear the lungs out
chew, rend open, look at the tiny structures
amazing intricate mystery of the lungs
yum
crush the heart in the jaws
cruch, crunch, yay
digging through, tunneling
digging through endless oxygenated layers
of living, bleeding, flexing flesh
an endless chamber of food and torture
devour
destroy
consume
where does it end?
never
yum
fight back against the ruiner consumer destroyer
ruin consume destroy
delicious ecstacy of monstrosity
find your own way home
 
-Ghost Falconry-
 
poking the nose out of the skull hole
sniffing, sniffing
drawing information from the night air
the avatar issues forth on its ineffable mission
sent to do by proxy
for which the master longs
but to which He cannot lower Himself
therefore the servant hunger
awakens, arises to feed.
 
alighting on the back of innocence
white feathers ripped free by the angry hands
of a vengeful wind
the dove bursts into motes
spraying its blue gnostic lifeblood against
the hide of the hunter
and its teeth gape wide to suck the cloud down.
 
it swirls above the sidewalk
knifeblade wings unfurled
the walker continues unawares, ignorant and blind
oh how the watcher wishes for a body
but it feels the Master's eye upon it
and, instead of striking,
wheels for home.
 
-A Quick Shower-
 
whispering in tinny clicks and rattles,
the chains gossip amongst themselves
as I work the winch,
raising you by all four limbs
toward the ceiling.
hooded, gagged, blinded,
stripped of clothing
and identity,
it dangles helpless and exposed
above my head.
cold and gleaming,
the knife slides free of its tooled leather sheath,
hissing anticipation.
pausing, I run my thumb
against the smooth hilt,
savoring the moment before
the storm breaks.
then, my arm becomes a rattlesnake,
shaking in warning before striking upward
with one bared steel fang,
slashing across my suspended playmate's
bare torso.
humming a Slayer song,
I set the knife down on the soap-dish,
and ran my hands over myself,
rubbing in my
fresh-harvested shampoo.
 
I love to masturbate
in the shower.
 
(doesn't everyone?)
 
-The Fetish Knife-
 
here seated in monastic silence
a chill caress smooths me
to stillness.
 
with silver-gray threads of silken smoke
lovingly brushing my
painted skin,
 
I gather iridescent thought-threads,
knotting the lot to my
talisman.
 
phantom crimson sluices over
serrated sleeping steel,
off the edge.
 
black and restless hunger scrapes inside,
but a sacred purpose
leashes it.
 
this mirrored blade reflects sharp dharma;
I will never murder,
I will hunt.
 
-Tainted Rhythms Again-
 
a shaky thrill courses in my blood
incense stinging my nostrils,
sweet and hot and soothing,
like bloodshed on a summer night.
the smoky air lies silkily against me,
deliciously intimate.
only the woad-hued spirals and sigils,
wetly glistening,
deny my skin its touch.
 
the calling has begun;
maddening flute-howls
and percussive bellows.
hootings and hollerings
with the cadence of song
prick upright my ears:
my brothers and sisters,
opening the way for me.
 
my hackles twitch upright;
the ritual gains in strength,
hungry flames licking the charred ceiling
as the torches are lit.
it is almost my time.
twisted fingers -- my own?
caress smooth cool stone
these rocky walls
our caern,
our sacred place
I have walked here before
Father willing, I shall walk here again.
but the drums are calling,
and it's time to go.
 
I set my feet before the painted spiral
in the center of all spaces
my siblings all around,
singing the way for me.
the sweet music of the sacrifices
in my ears,
my dripping fingers clasp tight
around an anonymous globbet
juicy flesh and splintered bone
consumed without thought
while sucking in the sacred smoke...
 
eyes closed,
my world is darkness,
like Father's,
the Darkness of Potential,
the Blackness of Possibility,
the Emptiness of Fullness.
I hear the Rite Masters rise,
feel their gentle talons
but I do not feel
the Markings
as they make me acceptable --
Father's blessing.
 
my own blood
mixes with the sacrifice's
(which I have consumed)
at my feet,
dripping onto the first line
of the Spiral.
 
the air clicks
as the pieces slide into completion.
 
momentary silence,
temporary but complete,
claims all.
 
without me,
my feet
take the first step.
 
sound resumes
like thunder crushing the rain
in the wake of lightning.
 
another step.
my part begins:
the drums are calling
it's time to walk
the Wyrm is calling
it's time to dance
as I have done
three times before
 
dance myself to death
that I may live again
dance the world to its death
that it may live again.
 
deja-vu?
I think I've heard
this song before...
 
(tainted
rhythms
again.)a shaky thrill courses in my blood
incense stinging my nostrils,
sweet and hot and soothing,
like bloodshed on a summer night.
the smoky air lies silkily against me,
deliciously intimate.
only the woad-hued spirals and sigils,
wetly glistening,
deny my skin its touch.
 
the calling has begun;
maddening flute-howls
and percussive bellows.
hootings and hollerings
with the cadence of song
prick upright my ears:
my brothers and sisters,
opening the way for me.
 
my hackles twitch upright;
the ritual gains in strength,
hungry flames licking the charred ceiling
as the torches are lit.
it is almost my time.
twisted fingers -- my own?
caress smooth cool stone
these rocky walls
our caern,
our sacred place
I have walked here before
Father willing, I shall walk here again.
but the drums are calling,
and it's time to go.
 
I set my feet before the painted spiral
in the center of all spaces
my siblings all around,
singing the way for me.
the sweet music of the sacrifices
in my ears,
my dripping fingers clasp tight
around an anonymous globbet
juicy flesh and splintered bone
consumed without thought
while sucking in the sacred smoke...
 
eyes closed,
my world is darkness,
like Father's,
the Darkness of Potential,
the Blackness of Possibility,
the Emptiness of Fullness.
I hear the Rite Masters rise,
feel their gentle talons
but I do not feel
the Markings
as they make me acceptable --
Father's blessing.
 
my own blood
mixes with the sacrifice's
(which I have consumed)
at my feet,
dripping onto the first line
of the Spiral.
 
the air clicks
as the pieces slide into completion.
 
momentary silence,
temporary but complete,
claims all.
 
without me,
my feet
take the first step.
 
sound resumes
like thunder crushing the rain
in the wake of lightning.
 
another step.
my part begins:
the drums are calling
it's time to walk
the Wyrm is calling
it's time to dance
as I have done
three times before
 
dance myself to death
that I may live again
dance the world to its death
that it may live again.
 
deja-vu?
I think I've heard
this song before...
 
(tainted
rhythms
again.)
 
-In Tooth and Claw-
This is a pantoum, a type of poetry which is constructed of linked quatrains and which involves repeated lines which change meaning with context within the poem.
 
Nature red in tooth and claw
Storm scent leaden in the air
Empty belly rumbling
Worn trails lie open and waiting
 
Storm scent leaden in the air
Hunger lies heavier than thunder
Worn trails lie open and waiting
The hollow one is on the hunt
 
Hunger lies heavier than thunder
Empty belly rumbling
The hollow one is on the hunt
Nature red in tooth and claw.
 
-Tabeautiful-
Title is a portmanteau of taboo and beautiful. This poem and the next one are the ones that got me in trouble at the original site I had this stuff on.
 
disinterred psychopathology
stinking and wan like that infamous Thing on the Doorstep
guerilla warfare
impulses launched like Stinger missiles
exploding across the frontal lobes
prurient paralyzation
squeeze the eyes shut
pretend, pretend, pretend
don't want to do that
don't want to want that
don't want to need that
yet denial hasn't lost its repugnance
so the unwanted conclusion still lies,
there on the unwelcome mat, reeking
as do the savage-butchered bodies of human prey
abandoned after I finish with them
in my hopeless hungry
dreams.
 
-Zen and the Art of Cannibalism-
This is the other one that got me in trouble. Even though it's clearly meant to be humorous and everyone who'd commented on it liked it. Who knows. I was told in the same message that if I had any other similar content on the site that I had to remove it myself or else I'd get in even bigger trouble... hence this file. I'd hosted these poems there for as long as eight years before this happened, but nevermind that...
 
Unseen hungry ghost
Predator in human skin
Lurks among the herd
 
Some folks drool for lamb
Others beef, but I prefer
The *other* red meat
 
Arcing silver edge
Slices a dark horizon
Full moon or my knife?
 
God's hand carves the earth
Canyon river running red
Metaphor in flesh.
 
Blood on my good shirt:
I just had this damn thing cleaned!
People are so rude.
 
Sleek steel crimson-graced
Open window into you
Pericardium!
 
Fresh-plucked beating heart
Just like a ripe tomato
Crush it in my jaws
 
Warming up the grill:
Home-made chuck on seeded buns.
Long pork for dinner!
 
Gleaming white arches
Spin around the spinal cord
Horseshoe, played with bones.
 
-Taboo-
Another pantoum.
 
Lying under the hungry moon
Held in the hollow of the sky
The hunter looks into his shadow
Fancying crimson stains on his hands
 
Held in the hollow of the sky
He questions his hunger
Fancying crimson stains on his hands
Tantalized by taboo temptations
 
He questions his hunger
The hunter looks into his shadow
Tantalized by taboo temptations
Lying under the hungry moon.
 
 
Lurking behind moral bars
Locked beneath in sullen silence
Quiet is not quietude
The hunter waits impatiently
 
Locked beneath in sullen silence
He must but cannot hunt
The hunter waits impatiently
The hunger bides its time
 
He must but cannot hunt
Quiet is not quietude
The hunger bides its time
Lurking behind moral bars.
 
 
One day it will end
Silence or satiation
One way or another
I will not suffer forever
 
Silence or satiation
Bloodlust will have its fade or fill
I will not suffer forever
Nature abhors a vacuum
 
Bloodlust will have its fade or fill
One way or another
Nature abhors a vacuum
One day it will end.
 
-Avoidance-
 
harsh churning pulsating
this aberration would be tolerable
if expressible
but knights of vocabulary ride to demise
in an unholy conflagration of shadows
over their bodies, now unstoppable
blood tide thundering toward expression
my mouth opens
words fall out, armored fatalities and
exquisite corpses
scattering into anthills of prose
desperately clawing at this emotive ideal
but their hapless effort goes to waste
as a glimpse of raw hunger
scatters comprehension
and leaves listeners asking,
"But why?"
 
taboo temptations
blood grapes on their thorned white vine
riding white horses over oceans of ignorance
anything and everything to be had
in trade for milled leaves
endless mindlessness, oh yes
but never the satisfaction
of comprehension
never the perfect understanding
of prey
for predator
and otherwise
only scurrying feet
pointing fingers
and a screaming void
aching for fulfillment
howling for its pounds
of human flesh:
corruption embodied;
corruption denied.
 
-Drip (Dirty, Dirty, Dirty)-
About a character from the webcomic JACK (pholph.com and ReaperRabbit on FurAffinity.)
 
There she is
Little wingless angel
Auburn hair a halo in the breeze
Every glare of rejection pleases:
If she will have me, I
don't want her
 
O, stalking;
They make it so easy!
Bad part of town to cut through, sweetheart...
Hungry thoughts already crowd my mind
Dirty dirty dirty
I can't wait
 
Looming night
An alleyway ahead
Circling and sneaking quiet behind
I thrill to her fear as she senses
The cold jaws of my trap
Around her
 
All alone
Just me, her, and my knife
Her total abasement exalts me
But my claim remains incomplete, so
I cut away her dress:
Exposure
 
Sweet panic
Terror intoxicates
Enjoying the dance of her struggle
No one to rescue or hear her now
Swooping dizzying rush
Of power!
 
Slipping inside
I penetrate her twice
Simultaneously stabbing her
Staking my claim and sating my lust
Dual violation:
Ecstacy.
 
-Disarticulation-
 
pelting downhill
hear gasping hitching breath
smell fear
running, running
jump a pile of garbage bags
he stumbles
land on his back
grasp his shoulder
shred his jacket from his back
fall with a crash
rolling
back on my feet, throw myself on his back again
before he can rise
pressing down, forcing
my gloves creak
knife snug in my hand
draw it along the back of his head
shave the skin from his forehead
ten arcing lines
all the way down his spine
deep incisions on both sides
one between each pair of ribs
a great circle cut from the belly and removed
like a cookie-cutter
bury his head in his own organs
drown him in his own offal
disarticulate his knees
pull him
apart!
 
anyone else feel like long pork chow mein?