New Poem: Factory Farm

A M Warkup. Images. Editorial.

OK, it’s not particularly original in its sentiment or imagery, but I like it. Get your face out of your plate and listen. 

Factory Farm

Face buried in the trough
devouring away with zeal
eagerly biting the broken fingers
of the herd that feeds us

The very fabric of our being
cramps with indigestion
but we chew happily away
it is all we have ever known how to do

Oozing out of our skins
we grin a fool’s grin
convinced we are so much better
than the poor bastards with the shovels

Bursting out of the seems like overcooked sausages
unable to see over our shoulders
unable to move out of the way
as the butcher sharpens his knife


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