The Flesh Factory

I clocked in

and the cogs began to turn.


A slippery fish, I was slid

along a grey conveyer belt:



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.




in the beginning

was the word.


a mute note:

void; unheard.


it ascended the throat

(that choked-up aisle)


to the mouth, baptised

in a pulpit of spit and enamel.


syllables strained at the pews of the teeth,–

congregating in phrases and aching to speak.


the tongue is an altar.

it alters my sermon-song.


my words dissolve

before i have begun


Raptor | Rapture

A gullet or a guillotine?


Was I nestled, lulled, in a crooning throat

or snared by the blades of a beak?


Perched near my ear

a caw, a cry,

a croak which splutters

coarse and gravel-dry:


‘Perhaps it was both, my dear.’


In epidermal dreams I still condone

its carrion-kiss:

the rummage; the ravage;

the scimitar-split of my trunk so wide,–


Wide as an avian eye.


It pecks past my bones like an off-white xylophone,

plucking my entrails like strings.