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Slaughterhouse
By Paul Cameron Brown
You're the aggressor
and your passion exceeds mine
but we're in this slaughterhouse together
and it's near closing.
Vats of prickly ointment
destined to repattern animal skin
and tubs of steaming formaldehyde
rest casually with the more antiseptic
thrill of green sawdust.
Blood is a chameleon, here, changing colours
en route to sausage and Pram but
my hotdogs and donuts are
holding better to the cuttlefish
in this unnatural forest.
The stars are a jangle of planets
in a world where wood became noise;
each ceiling beam, incidentally,
is the wrenched out spine
of a Longhorn steer,
doorknobs pig knuckles
bound for Octoberfest fear.
Even the kindly attendant is an
ogre spying out porkers' throats;
will sit under a bridge
then capsize crates
of young chickens
knife ready at hand.
The squeal of this bovine camp
is recycled on 40 watt amps
through more than decibels of rage;
is a fishly contest designed
to trade off gruel
for fresher prospects.
One armed forklift drivers, for instance,
with realistic Captain Hook hands
jab instructions to
lifeless walls where
underlings the colour of grey slate
form a human paste.
Sound is the monetary exchange,
rabbit dung the troll's own currency -
each scrawl of the pen
confirmed by the work order
upends living things bent over in pain.
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