A poem by Chris Page
And that chicken died for us.
And that chicken died for us.
And that chicken died for us.
beak all pecked out , wings burst free in a glory of angeldom, nothing left on the inside but sage and onion, nothing left on the outside but teeth and forks and obtuse children who ate the flesh of the chicken that died for us and left the husks of the insensible carrots.
And that chicken died for us, all squawking and clutterfuck so that we may, and it was a messy rotten business with a grotesquerie of roasties and a ghoulish slathering of gravy and severed heads of broccoli, for Christ’s sake, we had to send the children out of the room.
dipped a bloodied claw in the gene pool: children carried on a conveyor to a better place of strip lighting and tv in the kitchen and popupmicrowavethreespeedblenders and gastric enzymes. Oh, go to work on a soul.
Old Mother Hubbard dying in a bother of chains and knives sudden flashes of no inspiration of no insight, tin lamps swinging on more chains, and the wine was Chilean and quite palatable, and death had lots of dominion; death had lots and lots of dominion.
Old Mother Hubbard stripped naked in the glare – from left on the shelf to hung out to dry in the time it takes to snap a vertebra – pumped and primed and taken away from the mounds of chicken shit and the perplexing cycle of too-fast days and antibiotics to protect her from her neighbours
And that chicken died for us, silly bitch.
And that chicken died for us, silly bitch.
And that chicken died for us, silly bitch.
