Hip To the Slaughter

when the surroundings of the will begin to suffocate it & the hands grasping for some kind of deus ex machina slip slip slip like butta’ melting & dripping off the nooks & crannies, the temptation to hang up them shoes (those beautifully unique qualities of the self) & just buckle down n’ accept the conditions of the prison cell may be so great that the acceptance of all the horror to come might appear tolerable--- because the “promise” of something better looms in the air like a fog that never ever goes away & there are always a good amount of sheep baaaaaaaaa-ing at the door hoping & of course, praying (squinting eyes closed tight, on their little knees), that all will do the same--- all for a bigger piece of the pie all for a chance to wrap those lips round the barrel & just be fine with whatever outcome arises, to be a great mantelpiece when the prayer group comes over for cookies to be a totalitarian wet dream to be a prison rape in the making all hip to the slaughter.