Lone Ghost

The Red Big House

What are they doing in the red big house?
loud squeals escape from the house without direction or hope,
helpless efforts to survive
vanish as the echo of an underestimated animal soul,

I dress myself with courage and decide to step into the menacing house.

Rusted extinguishers, attached to
hallways of moldering walls stained with blood
leading to the place that will host their last fall.
Axes, knifes swords and all kinds of sharp equipment surrounds
and encompasses the periphery of the somber grounds.

What are they doing in the red big house?
It's something that can easily stick in your head,
and can NOT simply be swept away with a broom.
It's something that would keep you bethinking in bed...

We are 'killing' ourselves and what could be our pets,
they are being tortured, brutally dismembered,
and then served in our plates,

What are they doing in the red big house?
chickens thrown in boiling water alive,
men without capacity for discernment around,
splashes of blood stain their long plastic boots,
while saws, knifes and daggers hang from their aprons,
cows shot by barrels causing bruises on their brain,
shrieking, dripping blood from their mouths
as they are bludgeoned alive with ruthless machetes,
until they can't breathe anymore,
baby calves plundered from the milk of their moms,
pigs electrified, left half-alive, until time and pain
consumes their will in unnecessary agony and distress.

In the eyes of the executioner,
I see a remorseless heart, ignoring, pretending.
At the end he is just following orders,
and we are just following others,
mutely.

I'm not looking for someone to blame,
but there is no production without demand.
I realize in spite of their natural reactions,
grace and love also form part of their actions.

I just wonder...
Is such a sanguinary and ruthless process necessary?

We reduce ourselves to things
even animals would hesitate to do.
we trade our divine aesthetics for the false promise
of a tender steak and a caramelized pork chop,
but it's ok,
It's not their fault, it's not our fault,
no one is right if everything is wrong,
but next time you drive by the red big house,
you know what happens inside!

Topic(s) of this poem: abuse, belief, culture, food, social behaviour

Poem Submitted: Friday, February 3, 2017
Poem Edited: Saturday, February 4, 2017

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Poet's Notes about The Poem

I was driving by a slaughtering house, listening to 'the hyacinth house' from The Doors; the idea to write this poem arose.

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