The Flesh Factory

I clocked in

and the cogs began to turn.

 

A slippery fish, I was slid

along a grey conveyer belt:

 

down

to a throng

of wet and glittering forms.

 

The current

skinned me of my chlorine uniform;

 

my flesh,

inspected by hungry, eel-like tongues.

 

I flounder

and flinch

until each shift is done.

 

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