By Peter Byrne -
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The only ears that hear them
Aren�t listening
The only eyes that see
Are blind
The only hands that touch them
Cut their throats
And their screams and death rattles
Subside into a disengorging
Of blood
And spirit
And life
And now the hands that touch them
Rend their sacred bodies
And dismember
And fling and sort and stack and pack
And head and heart disperse
In different trucks
And feet too
With nothing wasted
And suddenly the flesh
The sacred sacred flesh
Is in the pot and on the pan
And in the oven and on the grill
And in the mincer and on the plate
And the music blares while the waiters wait
And tables and bellies fill with the cheer
And the grotesque laughter cackles and grows
While the murder goes unnoticed
For years
Until the next death
When the heart explodes
Or the cells implode
And the cancer-ridden carcass
Is stuffed in a bloated box
Right there amongst the grieving relatives
And the long forgotten animal
Exacts its just revenge.
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