poem: the Meat Grinder

I met my love at 7 years old

By the age of 12, it had me to hold

I’ve thus devoted

My everything

To this hungry creature,

My Love, a machine.

 

The factory whistle pierces

Our smoggy night

While in march the products

Of its other grooms and brides;

The paltry they farmed just

For this purpose

But I send in another limb

(of my own)

 

It favors the formulas

And ripened styles.

Be they brilliant produce

Or be they trite.

It’s more fixated

With the price tags

Than with the blood-drops

That I have wept.

 

The factory whistle laughing

Throughout sardonic dusk

While others’ cattles

March in, I send my bust.

At least it tastes me

And chews me well

Before it shrugs me off

(and spits out my shell)

 

“I respect your spirit”

It chortles at me

“You don’t compromise

For anything.

And if I don’t see you

Or congratulate you

I will always swallow

What you produce.”

Hardy-har! I put my heart down

On the conveyer belt

I strung out my veins

And gave them as well.

Slice by slice

I’ll be hacked away

And just to be forgotten,

Not a part of the menu’s dine

I should have learned to farm

And now I’m only a spine.

 

“What kind of farmer

Harvests themselves?

Learn the formula

And it won’t be such hell.

Every time you’re grinded

You foolish artist

you tried to make art

instead of market.

But as long as you send me

Your meat, I will eat

I won’t discriminate

But do not expect me

To stop the factory’s whistle

On your account!”

 

I understand, Meat Grinder

I know you have no heart

You’re here to consume

You’re not here for art.

But I’m only a spine now

Your warning comes to late.

I am already processed.

Bon appetite.

©2011 Luz Briar.

(A/N: Please click a response if you’ve read. I like to know if people are reading or not. Even comment if you want…The subject matter of this poem should let you know how tired I am of selective readers…)