Tuesday, December 09, 2003

Fowl Dance

A clean page defiled
Bloated, cluttered and scratched
Watch this pen like a hen
Scratch its way
Haltingly, erratically
Across a kitchen yard
Hither and thither,
The churned white, marred
Not a thought in its
Pea-sized mind.


Watch this.

Here comes the axe.


The gouting stream makes
Remarkable little noise
A scrabbling fury
Caught on tape
Makes precious little more sound
Than the living bird itself.
Death is a stinking art
The coppery smell
The emptied-bowel stench
The muddy yard flung in clods in the air…
I guess it's chicken tonight.


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