the butchering
a guest column by Kurt Danielson, bassist for TAD
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Quicksand
Get down and dirty Into Kid's story.
slip
1993 PolyGram Records, Inc
Featuring "U Don't Know Me" and
"Prodigal Son."
Clouds sagged overhead, threatening to break
Like turbid amniotic sacs. Crows stood
On a fence railing that circumscribed a lake
Of manure behind the barn. Inside
The barn door two great pigs oinked in utter
Complacency. Two men knocked them into the mud
With mere trigger pulls: it took three bullets for
Each one. Like walruses without tusks
The blubbery hulks reposed, squint-eyed
And deep in thought. From their cut necks, casks
Worth of blood spilled like victorious red
Bibs across the ground. The men hoisted the hogs
One by one on hooks. The skin, thick as sod
And pink as bubblegum, was peeled off like rugs
From a sticky floor. Meanwhile, a man
Wearing dung-dappled coveralls lopped
The heads. He salvaged the tongue, the brain.
And other succulents. The other sliced
Up the bellies. Like green anacondas,
Guts limp and glistening in their membranes plopped
Steaming onto the dirt. The patient crows
Cocked their heads, splitting their black beaks. The two
Men worked on into twilight, paring the shapes
Hanging from the cables. As in a dream,
They sculpted the forms into diagrams
From Gray's Anatomy. Their knives stroked
Striations of garnet and pork fat. Their hands
massaged the husks of raw muscle. They
Were transfixed by their motions, as if the sole
Purpose of butchering were self-hypnotism.
When they had finished their job, they walked
Towards you and your dad where you stood
Near the fence. Each had a pig tongue
And brain in his outstretched hand and a smile
On his face. You remember their bloody
Coveralls, their dissolving cotton breath.
There was something solemn about this
Offering, as if they were Roman priests
Giving you an augury. They gave you
Unnerving weather: the clotted keys of thunder,
The sinewy locks of sunlight,
The red hurricanes of slaughters. And you
Did not want them. You remember your
Dad's polite no, no thank you, we never
Touch the stuff, thank you very much.
Now they come to you in your sleep.
The northern lights shifting in their eyes.
Proffering organs torn from bodies. They gesture
With scalpels they hold in their free hands. You can say
Nothing. You can neither say no thank you
Nor accept their gift. You can only back
Away with blood on your hands, the smell of fresh
Bacon and pig shit in your nostrils. But they
Keep coming on in the endless twilight.
And the crows continue to look
On, expecting the good part to begin..
KIDROCK
THE POLYFUTE METHOD
RECORDS
01993 conduum records