Friday, June 3, 2011

The Butcher

Chop,chop all the heads down,
and bend your tired back and kindly pick them up,
and shed your trails before its sundown.
"catch your breath,my child,
for it is the wine of the gods we have spilt today,
and may we feast lustily today,
so shall we be fed by our darling cow,
glazed by the fires burning smoke beneath our roof,
and swell tonight,as liquid lovers do."
chop,chop,all the heads down,
the mother and the butcher,
tomorrow and forever,
they grind their knives against the filth and the bone,
and the mother of life and death,screams to her children,
"all hail the butcher!
you live his dreams of cutting flesh,
for eternities you will endure this!"
she gloats in her fury,
masking her terror of his face,
and the butcher remains idle in his shop,
his family outgrown,and the infinite cousins in numbers,
and yet,somehow,this knife would not stop,
the soft flesh that would not resist beneath it,
it was the keen mind that soaked in bloody pleasure,
as was his,that refused not the escape from paradise.
the children,raced each other around the world,
while the mother chased them behind the stormy winds,
that brought destruction and relief,
while the butcher still remained idle in the shop,
waiting for the meat that would slip beneath his fingers,
and his back turned,would his children devour,
and so he begins again,carving his thumb along the blade,
wishing their necks were lined against his skin,
but hold the tragic investors to blame,
it was them that laugh and talk in whispers,
but where am I now?
who is left to the butchers shop?
there is peace in the unknowing heart,
there is intelligence in the careless heart,
which do you choose?
and the butcher is sleeping in the garden,
careless and unknowing to these questions,
life and death return to their mother,
she sleeps before they could return,
and they sit by her and sing together,
"we strode in cities,naked and drawling,
we died unknown and survived today,
in tiny,missing rooms among a thousand lost,
we rode on horses and kicked their backs,
they rushed insane and trampled the sons,
we gave our gold to undesired men,
we took them back and were plain instead,
sleep gently,our darling mother,
sleep as you will the butchers handle,
strike that meat,with hate and beat,
this night is dead,and silent are we."

1 comment:

  1. I like the writing style, good imagery...depth. I must admit not sure where you were going with the theme but the poem reads well. As with most poetry, I am thinking interpretation can be left to the reader. What it conjures up in my imagination, perhaps due to personal experience, is family abusive father and husband. Curious to know what was in your mind when creating the poem.