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.