"slaughterhouses" poems
The Lung.
The broken bone branches hang heavy off knuckled tree. As cold and uninviting as wrapped meat in cellophane prison cells and those sweating milk bottles left on doorsteps. Women cry with the blackbirds as day breaks, rousing their reluctant nests.
As the shadows trawl in from chicken farms and slaughterhouses, across the squalid estates and past a debt collectors party. A ***** drinks his soot like coffee and waits for another years tide to retreat. Holding pith less ambitions and unmentionable qualifications, stewardess pass, uniformed thoughts and averting faces..
The rusty playgrounds sink into the fermenting wood chips, and a plastic bag runs through the scene; only to commit suicide in the oil ribbon canal. The chemical clouds thicken into a duvet of sky whilst arrows of a natural sun run home with tears of fear on their hot faces.
Down here the street lights flicker, and the patched uniforms drape off children sick with the flu that hit the school like a plague. Herding like cattle into the classrooms, to learn about the natural world
that is most unearthly to there reason.
Lunch bells ring from factories and the sky has drained to a sick -off white. The chip shop sells butties with no sauce nor bun, which machine like men guzzle and slurp.
The car parks lay stagnant in the distance and pigeons too fat to fly lay droppings on the bronze statue of a crying hero. As the roaring stops from the factories and high visibility coats are hung, the sky bruises and the men fill the pubs, until wives with children hung on washing lines drag there sweat soaked frames to the table, only to indulge them in a row.
Night creeps in, bringing with it the hooded figures that flutter along the streets. Music plays from a vacant building and seems to brighten the night.
A silhouette is seen standing on the edge, watching the busses bellow run like migrating snails, filled with the elderly and too young.
Cigarettes infest the streets creating a carpet of ash and litter. The city survives, remaining grey, never blinking, never heard.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 6:20 AM UTC
Dear DSM,
There is so much I want to say to you!
There is so much you ought to know!
You who live high up on medical Olympus,
You who live so that others may also live,
You who look down on us mere mortals,
You who look around and all you see is misery,
You who stand above the dark clouds of our minds,
You who stand for all that is noble,
Tell me, is my name written on your pale-white page?
Tell me everything is going to be OK!
There is so much I want to say to you!
There is so much you ought to know!
You who hold the secret alchemy of melancholy,
You who hold the keys to life and death,
You who preach a gospel of salvation,
You who preach though not all heed the call,
You who sing a song for the broken,
You who sing our song,
Tell me, will my soul be saved?
Tell me everything is going to be OK!
There is so much I want to say to you!
There is so much you ought to know!
I who long for your protection,
I who long ago gave up hope,
I who waited all my life for answers,
I who waited in long New York winters cloaked in bitter fear,
I am here now to testify,
I am here now my soul to cry!
tell me, what have you to say?
Tell me everything is going to be OK!
There is so much I want to say to you!
There is so much you ought to know!
We who float adrift along the edge of the abyss,
We now live while tomorrow no one knows,
We who wear many, many faces, though all are faded,
We who crowd the halls of hospitals and slaughterhouses,
We who call ourselves survivors while we still can,
We who are hopeless, helpless, sleepless and blue,
Tell me, who are we to blame?
Tell me everything is going to be OK!
There is so much I want to say to you!
There is so much you ought to know!
All things that must be said and done,
All things will fall into place at last,
All things we’ve salvaged, and all that we’ve lost,
All things we’ve left behind,
All these things that I must say to you now!
All these things you really ought to know!
Tell me now, will this voice be heard someday?
Tell me everything is going to be OK!
Dear DSM,
Until then,
THE END.
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 2:58 PM UTC
Before the Dawn Of Agriculture men like ME where slapped into the shadow of ****** shame but now who needs muscles or chiseled chins, great size or strength, a lover’s passion or a manly countenance ‘cause for ten thousandyears now I can persecute any female for infidelity towards ME and hold paternity privilege over MY biological children because we exceptional farmers invented marriage to destroy human sexuality by enslaving women with MY property for *** so I no longer need to share or compete or settle for an alpha males’ sloppy seconds within foraging groups that are forced to share what they carry with them instead of our enforced legal couplings that takes the innocent, primal pleasure and mystery out of *** by connectingshtooping to birth thanks to dirt MY dirt MY very own thousand acres of seeded soil littered with pens full of MY trapped sheep, cattle, goats and pigs which means I can pork any female I fancy and destroy any man who thwarts MY desire as simply as the bulls I castrate into submission to easily herd into MY slaughterhouses that feed all the inferior people no longerdependent on their hunting and gathering skills but on ME to stay alive so not only am I not considered a sociopath by hoarding food but am praised at harvest time like a ********* Babe Ruth hero because I have legally claimed and legally ***** those precious few life giving inches of topsoil with rotating crops and extended grasslands that exhausts and shrinks the earth, MY earth MY reign of forcing agricultural workers to bend over in the fields, stupidly exposing hairless backs to sun poisoning instead of their protective hunters’ heads of hair harvesting MY food that shrinks the testicles of everyone who is forced to feed on the cheap calories of MY industrialized plants and animals that lowers fertility, but who needs big ***** anymore when you don’t have to **** larger animals in order to survive or attract females with your superior physical attributes proving I am the social parasite Sultan of Swat who grows fat on the food I’ve seized by stealingPaleo land in the name of government protected ownership.
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 8:43 AM UTC
you're screaming at me--"b-b-b-b-b-b-o-n-e-s"
death rattle of the century
now the floor, now the eyes in the window, now the fridge door
swung open
gateway to paradise
b-b-b-b-b-b-o-n-e-s
******* magnum opus
stutter-screech
blood blood blood in the streets
(blood blood blood in your teeth,
in your sheets
******* christ, i want to **** you")
m-m-m-m-m-m-a-r-t-y-r complex
you're cruel.
now the casket wide open,
now the eyes in the windows,
now the showerhead, now you,
framed portrait, you,
"this isnt over,"
you, buzzing in my skull
(b-b-b-b-b-b-o-n-e-s)
quiet down.
wasp nest lying at your feet
bug, holy thing, germ
("this, this, this")
now the bed, now the covers thrown back,
now an empty casket.
theres no grace in slaughterhouses
no sweetness on the tip of a dead man's tongue--
******* death of princes, i could
devour you whole, i could
eat the oyster-world raw.
b-b-b-b-b-b-o-n-e-s
and a note attached to a javelin.
(and they'll say, "welcome to the end of the world")
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 2:44 PM UTC
kurwa? why did i include the word kurwa in the sentence? it's a conjunction: i / and.
sometimes you wonder why certain
consonants don't have applicable
diacritical marks...
for example the word: bydło /
cattle -
because that's what you say
of people who clearly, rather,
make language pristine when
doing ******** and sniffing up an ****
here... we find the b without the acute
stress.. bydło -
cattle, readied for the slaughterhouses;
nar kan haczyk na błazna!
idzie tuman! i zanim horongiew wron!
i wonder as to why they keep their
vocabulary freed from taboo and insistent on
herr censor -
oh right, 'cos it has to look
and sound "pretty", right?
**** 'em... i'll speak the worsened type
of peasant... i'll talk pheasant,
i'll talk peacock, and you do your little
**** should i care.
Oct 15, 2016
Oct 15, 2016 at 3:33 PM UTC
Once his kind were ubiquitous; Men and their ponies herding live beef
from the prairies of Kansas and Texas to the slaughterhouses North East
It was a hard life, but good, nights out under the stars; amusing themselves with a song.
There was beans and good coffee shared at the fire; The prairie wind blew sweet and long.
Then the trains came and life wasn’t the same and the cowboys all faded away.
Old Tex was the last of that vanishing breed; He’d tell me tall tales of those days
when he and his crew battled rustlers and snakes to see the herd safe to their doom.
His skin was like leather from the wind and the sun; his big hands arthritic and gnarled.
A roll your own cigarette drooped from his lips and his speech sounded more like a snarl.
Tex passed on last night, a blessing they say, to die in his sleep with no pain.
No churchyard for Tex, he will rest ‘neath the sod just out beyond the old grange
He was the last of a vanishing breed; a man to his quarter horse wed.
The land that he loved will keep changing above, but the wind and the stars never change.
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 8:57 AM UTC
With a bang or a slice a life is taken in a matter of seconds and put on your plate
Seasoned with salt and pepper you disguise the taste of ****** with a sizzle
The taste of death is a forkful away and if you just slather a sauce on it,
it’s like it just vanishes
**** With a cut of the rare muscle of a cow
Be the change, child. You can save them.
The compassion for a life is gone even though you scream
“I love animals” for everyone to hear.
Lies
That’s all I hear.
Splash. Pus and bacteria is poured into the bowl on sugary cereal.
“It’s a great source of calcium” they say.
I say it’s a great source of breast cancer taking years off your life.
Don't do it for yourself. Do it for them. Do it for their lives.
Please child.
Be the change.
The thousands of animals murdered in seconds.
Fun fact 3,000 animals die every second in slaughterhouses around the world.
1,
2,
3.
9,000 gone.
Is this a world you want to live in?
A world where animals are pumped full of hormones and antibiotics for the benefit of a meal you're going to forget about in a week from now?
Be the change, child. I know you can do it.
The alternatives are out there.
Use them.
Save lives.
Please child be the change.
You're the hope they have in their eyes.
Fun fact for your taste buds animals are kept in such small spaces so they can't move.
It tastes better, right?
No.
Jan 4, 2018
Jan 4, 2018 at 8:57 AM UTC
anything that is,
must bear light —
transitory, translucent: perhaps, winged
and conscious of space, mindful of turn,
sizing down height. vertigo of all that,
shining no ambivalence.
this is the way my world will end:
the room still reeks of sour mash —
Pablo the dog, oblivious, marble-eyed,
yet some pitch-black hound's awakening
from steely sleep. the pages will
fall flat on the doorstep unannounced—
it is difficult to imagine angels.
it is difficult to deal God's infinities.
they are each to their own
faults.
heaven is meant to scar. still drunk
in fearfully fretting butterflies
tilted in slaughterhouses screaming
****** against the crowd.
there will be no falsetto claim to
sovereign — a drop D, e minor chord
on the guitar, strumming, swimmingly
discolored and only resounding.
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 10:42 PM UTC
daughters
****** them
before
the
slaughter
slaughterhouses
my
day
dream
cream them to me
beneath my feet
they
hover
what den have the wolves
my wool is razor plated
thief bite
an
mere
as if
faded
the piper taught me in tune
consider them
as
looks
what have you seen
circumcised
by
rock
at the age
of
13
it wasn't mean
it was just
********
it
could
never
hurt
me
get
ready
prepare your *****
?
...
..
.
Feb 13, 2018
Feb 13, 2018 at 2:23 PM UTC
Once his kind were ubiquitous; Men and their ponies herding live beef
from the prairies of Kansas and Texas to the slaughterhouses North East
It was a hard life, but good, nights out under the stars; amusing themselves with a song.
There was beans and good coffee shared at the fire; The prairie wind blew sweet and long.
Then the trains came and life wasn’t the same and the cowboys all faded away.
Old Tex was the last of that vanishing breed; He’d tell me tall tales of those days
when he and his crew battled rustlers and snakes to see the herd safe to their doom.
His skin was like leather from the wind and the sun; his big hands arthritic and gnarled.
A roll your own cigarette drooped from his lips and his speech sounded more like a snarl.
Tex passed on last night, a blessing they say, to die in his sleep with no pain.
No churchyard for Tex, he will rest ‘neath the sod just out beyond the old grange
He was the last of a vanishing breed; a man to his quarter horse wed.
The land that he loved will keep changing above, but the wind and the stars never change.
Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 9:51 AM UTC