The Poetry Corner

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.