Monday, 22 August 2016

The abattoirs revisited

photo by: Raoul Z. Tricowsky 

I had been there before, described the world where these bloody things can happen, in the abattoir. The scene of cruelty, devoid of emotions, a room for efficient movements and pragmatic use of space that can be hosed down with water and the floor drain takes it away. Then there is the fat accumulation tank... details, but for a complete picture, necessary, and I do see these things with new eyes. Now there is more past between me and those moments that left me with the experience.

On the farm the act of killing can be ritually appeased, the victim given the respect efficiency can't afford. The animals fight over the rejected parts, we uphold the humanity by refusing the tabooed and dirty percentage of the resources. We are better than that. We have our pride.

When we love our spirits, we will not kill in that cold way. We will sacrifice some effort to beauty and for that harmony we recognize in beauty. For us to remain human, the death must be humane.

The abattoir is not a harmonious concept. There the heart is to be cut out to put the blame on that emptiness thus revealed. It is you with the butcher's heart. Having been there do you have it in you to suffer the atonement to win back even some of your innocence?

Or will you find peace and your place with the carcasses of the animals?

Maybe it is not needed to go there, but I have, and I did revisit. And no one deserves to be loved to death just because that abattoir exists. The butcher can have his or her pride of professionalism, but the one that does not admit to have been there and demanded for the heart to be cut out doesn't have even that. And the abattoir lives on.

From the Abattoir of Dreams pt I

As if I longed to those cold rooms again
to those where from all Horrors derive,
to where I used to hide

In the abattoir of dreams,
merely observing
the grand butcher stands still
as the machine works its ways

To escape
I have crawled
through the sleaze
and the gutters

No name for savior
nor deliverance,
for whom do I then pray?

Though he's not a friend of mine,
the butcher,
I can sense his composure,
the abyss
beyond the sky’s canopy

I bear his scent
and it's not a pleasant one
but the breeze is fresh
in the vacant rooms,
in greatness of his absence.

From the Abattoir of Dreams pt II

In the abattoir of dreams
the butcher stands still
(merely observing)

Our will
laying down to die
at his feet,
weary from the trails
after petty crumbs of hope

Famished and humiliated,
for fortunes cruelties,
our fading efforts all lead
to this grave for bravery

Mesmerized by doubt
by its acidity on the palate
burning on the tongue,
savage and wordless
and tied into silence,
all without effort,
any from no-one

Its all in the wind,
in the constant chill
what we've striven for
but never wanted

Wanting out from the inside
we could never bare being exposed.

From the Abattoir of Dreams pt III

The abattoir
has now drawn back
all my dreams
and marrow

as I lay down
into this grave
for all my bravery
and effort

my lack
and void
even the bitters in me

my clean palate
with a taste of teeth
that would still bite

I give
to a maggot
to which I am
the hole.


The sunk dreams and high ideals also brought us here, and for myself I admit that I was on a crash course with reality, with the things that don't budge at our dismissal of them. The great lover I wasn't demanded something for his cancellation, the friend in need who was never there to give had had his gift embittered, we went there each our own way, but we must forgive ourselves as we must forgive the world for allowing it to happen, and if we want to stop going there we need to stop using it as an excuse to take others there too.

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