Would every single stricken chicken,
feathers plucked and out of luck,
headless,
legs pulled as your lips smack
through another hurried lunch,
prefer to roost
and cluck
and lay
another
egg for you today?
posted on dverse open link night 108.
http://dversepoets.com/2013/08/06/open-link-night-week-108/
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waiting for the perfect tidal wave: a soul tsunami knuckle whitening cataclysmic change. waiting to inhabit second earth: send out sat...
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Dogs like us... Ain't got no family trust, Lyin' around this ol' bunk shed With nothin left but to be led. They's saying...
dang...in your face...
ReplyDeletewe take lives to feed ourselves for sure..
watching a cow butchered
its sobering
or a chicken...
lol this was a fun read. Made me think of the name of a chicken restaurant from my California days: El Pollo Loco.
ReplyDeletethe chicken clucks
the chicken ducks
but once he’s struck
he’s out of luck
I am sure she would!
ReplyDeleteI have watched so many documentaries on the oft (behind closed doors) barbarism of the kill in abattoirs that I can't believe I still eat chickens. Unfortunately (for them) - I love the taste of them...
Anna
I like the question and my answer is Yes ~ I doubt we are even troubled by the way we mass produce and kill them for food ~ Perhaps we can be vegetarians ~
ReplyDeleteChicken used and abused this could be a historical text if they grow them in test tubes, and back to the poem loved it good blend of humour and reality
ReplyDeleteThis is why I sometimes contemplate becoming a vegetarian :)
ReplyDeleteI suppose I've a bit of a different view, this girl ranch-raised as I. Some of my earliest memories are of butchering day--be it for the goats, the pigs, the rabbits....the chickens were the most fun. (dear Lord, don't judge me--I was four!) We'd wait till the first snow, that way, when the headless careened off into the woods, you could follow the trail. (I can sense shaking heads as you're reading this)
ReplyDeleteSlightly macabre, I know, but I have a healthy respect and love for our food cycle--done with compassion and integrity, it is simply how we live. The tiny goat I delivered with my bare hands in the hay, I played with, milked, churned that milk into butter and ice-cream and cheese. I fed and cared for and when the day came, there was extra grain and not a drop of fear or pain. This, is ranch life.
On the poetry side, I love the playful wit you employ, David, you do make me smile so. (and now I'm thinking about lunch...) :)