hip to the slaughter

when the surroundings of the will

begin to suffocate it &

the hands grasping for some kind of

deus ex machina

slip

    slip

        slip

like butta’ melting & dripping off the

nooks & crannies,

the temptation to hang up them shoes

(those beautifully unique qualities of the self) &

just buckle down n’ accept the

conditions of the prison cell

may be so great that the

acceptance of all the horror to come

might appear tolerable---

because the “promise” of something better

looms in the air like a fog that never ever goes away &

there are always a good amount of sheep baaaaaaaaa-ing

at the door

hoping & of course, praying

(squinting eyes closed tight, on their little knees),

that all will do the same---

all for a bigger piece of the pie

all for a chance to wrap those lips round the barrel &

just be fine with whatever outcome arises,

to be a great mantelpiece when the prayer group comes over

for cookies

to be a totalitarian wet dream

to be a prison rape in the making

all

hip

to

the

slaughter.