by and published in Edition Two of Pomegranate
The slaughterhouse set my head pounding:
All those chooks jostling along the disassembly lines.
All the men there who shake hands with corpses.
All the codeine lighting. All the flesh.
I’d never thought flesh was grotesque til I went there,
til I saw what men do to chooks with knives.
Yet there was something arousing about it;
The chook chook of machines? The conveyor belt?
Perhaps – I’d rather it was the men; elbow deep
in chook meat, groping at their wet innards,
packaging them. The fact they do all that
under one roof here. None go home. None have wives.
I think I began to like the smell of men and meat;
the mechanical nature of work and lines.
I began to want to be a chook; paralysed by light,
manhandled on the belts – torn –reformed – repackaged all night.
is a poet and reviewer, as well as the poetry editor for Cadaverine Magazine