Home Horror. 

(Or the chicken that cooked itself.)

For three days, growing into consciousness:
 the ripe smell of cooked chicken
  in an oven left for three weeks, cold.
The mystery beckons,
 strange as a strawberry in winter's desert,
   so I open the door.
Stench slams my face and the back of my throat,
and the sounds of roasting erupt from the dead tray;
life beyond death oozing meatily in its own livid juices.
The black hairs, the dull green, the thick bacteriac bubbles,
the scum, the nameless grey yellow, the fur, and the soft sizzling heat,
 and the miasma, and the movement,
  and out of it all, out of the door
     like plump, pallid slow heavy rain,
           the maggots drip.