Slaughterhouse

    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.