The misshapen horror

Dare we speak,
Lest our voices be heard above the din
Of an unnatural birth,
A birth of many generations at once
And we it's keepers watch
This horror from below take form...

Dare we say,
We consecrate this union of manured flesh
Upon which boils lester
And on opening, the sores reveal "children",
Umbilical cords receiving liquid filth
An act somewhat obscane...

And so,
Slowly they scatter
Away from their blemished "nests"-
Oftspring born inside out
Moist organs adorning breast and torso
And from their bowels they nurse...

So what purpose would these serve?
A creature which mates itself
And spawns visceral demons!
Dare we say,
There's to be a change in the food chain-caveat...