Long Slaughterhouse Poems
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The night
has a bluish tint tonight
from the exceptionally
brilliant
full moon,
sky,
cloudless
with a slightly brisk breeze
coming from
the direction
of where the last cemetery
I passed was,
“the breath of the dead”,
I think it might be an omen.
Barely a sound
is heard
in this still end of day
as I reside
under a large,
scraggly scrub pine.
I survey the store front
where I have located
my last two targets,
it seems like yesterday
when I took down the first
and now here I find
the last two
(deserving)
in a pool hall ,
well,
I could wait
for them to leave,
but since
this might be it
for awhile,
I’ll just go in
and turn it
from a pool hall
to a slaughterhouse.
I extend six tendrils
down my back
Like a cape
allowing them
to sway in the breeze
as I chew
on a hunk of flesh
I found in my pocket.
Surrounding myself in illusion
I leisurely
walk to the front,
go in,
then press my right palm
to the glass
sealing it with a black panel
then allow it
to expand,
blocking all the windows
so slowly no one notices.
I spot one by the bar,
the second
on the other side of the room
with someone,
I lick my lips in anticipation,
oh I’ve finally
come into
what I deserve,
tonight I shall
make the walls run red.
Casually,
I head to my closest prey
and stand directly behind her
with an evil grin
spreading across my face,
when she turns around,
she recognizes
the old face I’m wearing
and she goes white.
Raising my right index finger
to my lips
to make a shushing gesture
I bring my left hand
to her chest
and encase her
in a restraining band
and push her
into a stool,
she seems about to scream,
or cry,
neither will do………..
yet.
With a finger
I send a pin of blackness
through her lower jaw
and silence her.
Almost strutting
I go to the back door,
send a restraining band
through the handle
and bury it
in both sides of the frame.
Every friggin day
mother hen runs amuck,
while all chicken's
beady eyes appear awestruck
drawing particular
agitation, irritation, perturbation...
of Punxsutawney (Doctor) Phil
(well grounded) woodchuck,
the latter glaring at henpecked
yours truly rifled
tail feathered rooster,
whether communicating
nonverbal sympathy
towards me, a garden variety
Gallus gallus domesticus dumbstruck,
who doth make feeble attempt
albeit without explaining
rhyme or reason
poetic, plaintive, pathetic... cluck,
regarding doomed pyrrhic victory
against incessant cackling
more fowl and upset
than goosed duck,
she that casus belli hideous source
feels cooped up bred to lay eggs
absent any pleasure to fµç*
out her tail feathers fin
hushed yoked for sole purpose
mutter under beak, what the "huck"
subsequently, she takes frustration
buzzfeeding me 'bout chained to
chicken feed to earn
breeder (yours truly) favorable luck
yielding "FAKE" farmer
Matthew Scott Harris megabuck
regarding top quality accolades
raves subsequently generate
he invariably feels moonstruck
matter of fact expanded business
necessitating workers to drive
state of the art rigorous motortruck
the missus decries mistreatment
scratching thru mire and muck
to fill little beasts in belly,
eventually retired, repurposed
relieved invariably chef
buoy or gull hardy sole destiny,
whereby one or another
hired hand will gingerly pluck
every spruced, primped,
groomed... feather
in short shrift priming
precious helpless creature,
(who bemoans lack
of state bird status)
into slaughterhouse five
butchered, filleted (maybe), quartered...
routed to household kitchen
gamely served at potluck
toothpicks applied to teeth
loosening gristle unstuck
after appetites satiated
belt unbuckled years ago
purchased before Sears Roebuck
shuttered stores, plus
bought linens and things
comfortable pillow perfect to tuck
under drowsy sudden sleepy head
unaware coop d'etat mutiny hatched,
whereby sly fox weasels him/
herself to guard henhouse
finding petrified slack beaked
AC/DC powered chicken coop,
where prating poultry thunderstruck.
(G Penta minor for the first lines in a ballad pulse 72 quarter, )
My wolves are my strength, and I am their strength
We are a pack, and we are family
Messing with them is messing with me
Messing with me is messing with them
Different species are in our ranks. We are no longer exclusively one species.
(F Blues/D major – pulse 90 then 120 quarter)
We gather ourselves towards the kill and strike
Come and try to fight us and you’ll find out the strength of our bite
Here us howl
Oh, little lamb how the flesh feeds us and comes out in a pile of excrement
Of course, you were a pile of excrement when you opened your mouth to bleh with the others of your false flock
You lied to the others about being the strength of a pack when you were a mere charcutier board
(Repeat backwards)
Of course, you were a pile of waste when you opened your jaws to speak as you were following the flock into the slaughterhouse
Oh! Little Lamb how your flesh was to become the food for those that have demonized us, while giving you a false hope to be redeemed, when in truth they were stealing your spirit and soul.
Your body was the last thing to be given away.
They wanted it until you took it back.
You were thrown to us to become the flesh we need to survive. Well, little lamb you were not a true lamb.
(Eb minor 100 quarter)
You were not a black sheep.
You were a small wolf being feed lies by a den of thieves that gave you that name.
When we asked what your name was you stated that you were called a Lamb.
They have betrayed you and threw you to us.
They thought they knew the wolves and gave us little credit.
We have existed before they came about.
We were the ones that guarded them when they were weak
We only eat the ones that hurt the population dynamics
Little Lamb, do you see the one next to me?
It is a lamb that travels with me as my mate.
A lamb that travels with the wolves will never be alone or need to show fear from us or from anyone; because the strength of one is the strength of all, and the strength of all is the strength of one.
Come join us for the kill and the fight to survive!
more the norm than the exception
in this wonderful capitalist rape room
where coming into work can mean
leaving early without a job & a
pink slip, with a pat on the back & a
“thanks for being such a good worker”---
armed with all the facetious nonsense
that emanates from the mouths of
higher-ups, whose jobs are just a little
more secure than your own,
making them bent further over the table
with the drill shoved so deep up inside
them that you couldn’t pull it out with
a ****ing forklift,
if you even dared to try.
and on the day you come in &
they’ve taken away some of your coworkers,
leaving you “alive” as far as the workforce
goes (for one more day), you feel an odd
sense of guilt & blame, like it should have,
like it could have, like it will be you---
much like on imagines a survivor of a plane
crash sees the deaths of their co-flyers as
a precursor to their own fessing up to
that certainty of mortality,
you close your mouth with a sudden horror---
because these people were your friends,
as far as the workplace is concerned---
you’ve spent hours, weeks & years with
them & their fate has been decided with a
****ing red pen & a greeting at the door
when they were coming in,
because the higher-ups didn’t even have the
goddamned decency to give them a call
prior to the beginning of the work day---
so now, they hang their heads, some cry,
and in the eyes of all of them is a new
terror…a head full of “what am i gonna do?”
adding them to the legions of
america’s growing unemployed---
oh the wonderful “land of the free,”
where you can smile as long as you are
****ing
economically
viable.
tomorrow, they go online to file for
unemployment, to start the hardest job that
there is---
looking
for a
job.
and you miss them.
and you hope the best for them.
and you know the cards are stacked against them.
and you know neither obama or romney is gonna
****ing help them.
and you go to sleep so you can get up in the morning &
go back to the slaughterhouse,
hoping today isn’t your day (always tense & ready for your
time) &
hoping that wherever they are,
that they are ok.
It happened many years ago, just after World War ll.
When I was just a little girl with lots to see and do.
A visit to my cousin's house, ten miles northeast of town,
Would cause the frown upon my face to flip flop up-side-down.
I stayed for just a week or so and shared her saggy bed:
Told silly jokes and giggled, as sleep hovered overhead.
Then came that awful morning when we took our country walk.
The day would start with sunshine and much childish, girlie talk.
Mowed stubble in an open field, each bare foot placed with care,
As well as dirt road trod upon, with stones and pebbles there.
But what we were to come upon, while meandering on our way,
Is not a sight that any child might come upon today.
An old shed there beside the road, not even tucked from sight.
A charnel house with death inside: bad dreams to come that night!
The hog and steer hung upside down and both were split in half.
The pig above a rusted drum, prepared for scalding bath.
Their innards heaped beside the shed, a pile of sickening gore.
Two heads with glazed and staring eyes, would view the world no more.
A slaughterhouse for all to see while happening to pass by.
Run by a neighboring farmer who did butchering on the side.
We stood transfixed and watched him work, his lips pursed in a whistle,
As he dunked the hog in the scalding drum: later scraping off the bristle.
And sadly we took a closer look at the face of that old steer.
Two days before we had patted him in a field not far from there.
That gentle old beast in a pasture, unknowingly chewing his cud.
Now a dead and lifeless thing, defiled with sawdust and blood.
We trudged home in solemn silence, our innocence badly bruised.
The world, though still an open book, had new . . less pleasant rules.
A lesson in our lives to come of the callousness of men,
With many more lessons to follow, before this world will end.
Now when I see children learn about death, while watching pretend CGI;
Two little girls will still come to mind, and the old steer that made them cry.
© 2015 Diane Lefebvre
The surgeon generals
are scalpel meeting once again
Fear doktors of war
are planning to raise another mar
on Earth’s topographical skin
Pigmented epidermal cells
are being prosperity lullabied put to sleep
under the celestial lights
Souls with eyes and minds closed —
their ears tingle lustily,
hearing cash pillow talk on poverty sheets
But, the gorgeous planetary patient
has no operating room human rights
Oh, such an awful terrestrial plight!
Yet, the view from the firmament heights
show another picture
of love from above
No stitches are seen
on the sky blue-eye, brown skin beauty
Regal global queen,
daughter of the Lunar tides,
your disfigurement is a cosmic shame
Moon princess,
Snow White seasonal changeling,
the galloping Four Horsemen are coming
upon the dispossessing gale wind
to trample upon
your perfect facial contours again
Hazel spring eyes,
with a cerulean crown
over her cloud-colored wedding veil
She wears such a Polar aurora adorable,
pristine mountainous gown
But the Jekyll dogs of war
are viciously on the shadow Hyde, waiting
to gnash another canine needle
into your verdant cheek vale fertility
Upon an evergreen face
does not one strand of virgin
forest hair
stand out of winter place
Until the anaesthesia bombs needle drop
to pockmark your oasis skin ...
and the monstrous dissection begins
Bloody butchers bullet love
slaughterhouse flaying
Stitching border sutures ... raised-flag lines
that are ever changing
As the summer fruits of world peace
are no longer autumn falling
Cris-cross scissor map marks
have so money land-lust sullied your timeless beauty
A planetary Bride of Frankenstein
is now your geo-political, laboratory scarred destiny
And I’m afraid to experimentally speak:
more stitches are soon forthcoming
Yet, from high above,
tho’ I hear
the negotiating table scalpel scrapes ...
I see no ugly stitches
on your indigo beautiful oceanic face
Tim had dreamt of magic mountains but was stuck in a snow globe
Luckily there was some antifreeze in the little dome on his desk
Used as a paperweight for discarded inked upon manuscript pages
A complete stark nativity scene directed wilfully by Father Christmas
Who looked like a hobgoblin lost in translation waiting for the storm
Weary for wear after a day out in the shops on a very Black Friday
Tim felt more like Robinson escaping from his treasured island
Preparing messages in a bottle of palm juice for seasonal greetings
There was no Santa Claus on his mind swirling with the natives
It’s a pagan charade which escaped from the Holy Book in contempt
Of meaning and humility as well as a festival of love and compassion
They might as well have created frosted cornflakes dancing on a dolphin
Tim’s script needed editing but a Gingerbread Man distracted his thoughts
While Mother Mary cuddled her cute firstborn on the way to Galapagos
Unaware of bloody nails and the cross born from post-partum blood
Hark the Herald Angels but his hero was a mermaid growing more fins
Searching for freedom and laughter as the chorus went forth to multiply
The many voices competing to take centre stage in verses and rhythm
I don’t need imposters or false prophets pirouetting under glass ceilings
But equality and empowerment to disperse fake opium for the masses
And yet the flakes drifting in his mind resembled cocaine for the few
Scrooge entered his senses and Pinocchio stumbling over his nose
Who fell through a trap door and was eaten alive by wild reindeer
Starved by the powers that be in the slaughterhouse aside frozen turkeys
Foul smelling odour scraped his nostrils and scarped a cliff face of doubt
Maybe he should write a novel about unicorns on their way to Nirvana
When Tim awoke it was Easter and rabbits had escaped from the burrow
27th November 2019
the notorious hotel...
monument to the greed of men,
it is a breathing stone-hewn titan -
looming over her, threatening pomposity,
selfishness threaded with egyptian cotton,
the cold stares of people from the upper leagues of life...
yet the young street girl enters anyway, defiant,
stilted and out of place in her cheap summer dress -
the breath of success sucks her in,
money-scented sussurations kissing her plebian cheekbones...
taken by the hand she glides up velvet stairs,
half-drowning as she soars past fish tanks bubbling to the ceilings,
past effervescent marble arches...
the rich flit by her, swan-like, with noses tilted heaven-ward
emitting the subtle reek of idle hedonism...
breathless, restive, she perches in a gilt chair,
bitten fingernails tapping ivory tablecloth,
waiters descend like falcons swooping in for the kill -
'tea or coffee, madam, scones with devonshire cream madam,
your soul on a silver platter madam...'
who is this madam, she muses,
checking her reflection in the silver teapot,
who is this woman wearing my skin,
a pretender to the crown of the landed -
distracted, melancholy, she crumbles her fruit cake,
swallows the strawberry sorbet in icy gulps...
distractedly she notes the taste of gunmetal -
her cappuccino is sprinkled with gold dust...
caged in by gilded illusion her lungs labour,
claustrophobia gripes though the roofs soar up to touch God's soles...
she is not welcome here,
she feels doomed, somehow, unworthy -
a goldfish floundering with the sharks...
jumping to her feet she flees, kitten heels clattering on mosaic floors -
out the door, panting, flushed,
into air that smells of exhaust, of seaspray and sweat and natural things
relieved she slows, straightens her spine, sniffs the wind -
a smile flirts with her lips as she strolls away into the anonymous night,
the little lamb who escaped from the slaughterhouse
On glossy pages generally reserved for stars of stage and screen
golden calves lounging casually on cushioned chaises, deities of decadence
sunlight streamed in black and white through filthy, filmy windows
as flies converged in the corners crawling over themselves in a frantic frenzy
I could hear their communal buzzing echoing in my ears
facing my own fears for my future
forcing myself to read past the first paragraph
Another photo followed, captured on the same sort of camera as the famous
The bathroom of the apartment one level below
black slime soaking through the ceiling, oozing down the walls like ectoplasm
congealing on the cold tiles, dripping in the sink
I could smell it in the ink
the sour, sickly sweet, pungently putrid scent of a slaughterhouse
The identity of the source of the gore from above
gleaned from the contents of his wallet
removed from his back pocket as he lay face down on the floor
by the thickly gloved hand of a man in a moon suit
He had been drawn to the city decades before searching for fame
to see his name on marquees
hoping his face would soon grace the covers of magazines
like the one I was currently reading
His neighbors knew nothing of him
describing their fellow dweller within the walls of the run down slum
as a silent ghost
rarely seen but for a moment before vanishing behind his door
as if he had condemned himself to solitary confinement for his failures
In the end no next of kin could be found
His ashes collected in a tin container sat on a shelf
in the city morgue for a year
before being dumped in a hole dug in the ground by a stranger with a spade
in a corner of a neglected cemetery
along with all the others who had died alone
unclaimed, unmourned, unrenowned
-
Proffered no reprieve, led was I like cow
By clinic’s nurse to slaughterhouse, I thought,
The wise me cursing the rebel me now,
All mute, betwixt devil-pain-and-doc caught.
Take thermal waves— weighty words waft from her,
And every day— we can’t let it get worse—
She, pontiff like, her wisdom did aver,
I learn to live with pain, whilst me to curse.
Oh for a thankless lingering long time,
Yet, pain nor problem wanes both wind their way,
Docs have reasons that to them only rhyme:
I need take a good look at your x ray,
I feel as if caught in a lifetime’s crime—
Caught red-handed with a bleeding knife, say.
Yea, caught red-handed, knife still bleeding red,
No sign of malignant growth, he declared
As he scanned my x ray, felt elated
To hint that he favoured me, for, he glared
At me to pose: how kind heart he’s within,
Then, his eyes enlarging more than somewhat,
Said, see that growth on left hidden therein,
I sure have reasons to doubt it than naught.
But doc, I see naught else but fore-arm bone,
Humerus bone as you call, but I view
It as rather funny, fun too far gone,
But felt, silence is patients’ sole virtue,
On wrong side of stick— hurting bone my own,
Wordless I weighed for his weighty clue.
_______________________________________
Crown of sonnets | 03.11.2012, revised July 2023|
Poet’s note: Here are sonnets III and IV of a sequel of ten sonnets constituting one single poem called a crown of sonnets. The last line of the preceding sonnet is repeated as the first line of the next sonnet, but not verbatim; nor is the first line of the first sonnet is repeated as the last line of the tenth as is. The sestets are either a quartet and a couplet or two sets of three-lined Terza Rima. Hurt is the place from where light enters, and it did, I realized after my long-drawn medical treatment.