swings in the frosty flash-room
to the swing of a butcher's shining knife.
Marbled in grey and white
with blood clotted... it hangs,
no longer dripping
from a sacred slaughter.
The spatter of drops wasted
on an industrial washed apron,
as beefy banter of clobbered bull
blows frozen in breathy puffs of bravado.
Refrigerated caravans are coming
to take the crude hunks
of sculpted meat to the overfed.
In a darkened corner
a young mother cries
as flies feast on her offspring...
as the offal of beasts are offered to a wasteland.
No comments:
Post a Comment