Pink bodies glide by in an endless
sequence, one neck after another, opened
by the blade he grips. With a liquid-muted squeal,
and cacophonous struggle of the fore legs (the back two are bound
up), the swine pours its life out with just a little coaxing of the man's tool.
One, two, three...and more
drowning in the smell of ***** matter and gore.
White, brown, and black bodies
in an never-ending stream,
dangle by the hind legs, swinging
from the mass of them, roll by; the ankles
hold their weight. The man's knife is
never dull, it finds the sweet spot
where it slides between bone and tendon
and cartilage and into the vein,
thick and fleshy (a garden hose),
which pumps its contents onto the killing floor.
One, two, three...and more
near-boiling in the unrelenting heat of ******.
That knife, that blade, that tool
opening one faceless
animal after another.
Their names are blotted out in blood.
Their cries bubble out through red,
thick like mucous.
Knife in, knife out,
knife in, knife out
with dull repetition
and the precision
of a machine,
until they all look the same,
until he feels nothing for them,
until there is no difference between them and people,
until the sharp, stained instrument of steel
turns to the side
and into the man next to him.