(no subject)
The bus passes by a killing machine on the way home each day. Once I depart this bus I must walk by four massacre trucks. This killing machine appears to run 24-7; it must keep skining and chopping and burning its prey to stay in business. Its plumes of factory smoke reach to the heavens, and its victims cry out as they are sacrificed to consumerism.
Three of the trucks I pass by on my way home release a stench no thing should ever have to endure, and the sterilizer or cooker the trucks bring there cargo to pumps out an even more putrid smell. I've learned to plug my nose well in advance of these trucks because one sniff of that smell can put me into nauseous twitches. However, as I eye the trucks and walk by, it makes me wonder what holocaust has occurred today, and whether the dead is trying to speak to me from behind those metal walls. If there were humans trapped behind those walls I could do something; I could call it murder, and all would be shocked and horrified to find the hundreds of human bodies in those trucks. But the bodies that the trucks contain don't mean anything to anyone - at least not on a personal sense. Do you know that most of the cattle that is slaughtered is still alive and feeling and lowing after they're decapitated? Supposedly the cows are supposed to be given enough of a certain injection so that they're unconscious when they're killed, but since most cattle farms try to speed the process the cows get to cry as they die. I really don't know, though, what's in those trucks - all I know is that even after death it suffers.
The fourth truck contains those silent, sirene victims that lay passively on its flatbed. Sometimes I touch them and whisper "I'm sorry" as I walk by. These beautiful wonders that I derive much of my wisdom and patience from stand free less and less each day.
There is death all around me mostly seen in cutesty-wrapped, ready-to-go, Mickey Mouse packages. I smell death in the air; I see dead cats in my dreams; my face looks like death. Why I'm not dead yet, I don't know. I could have died several times over by this point in my life, but some force wishes me to remain. I've stopped arguing with that force, and plotting a demise which will never come anytime soon because of something that always prevents it. So I'm left to live in this world of death, and suffer this life with the rest.
Three of the trucks I pass by on my way home release a stench no thing should ever have to endure, and the sterilizer or cooker the trucks bring there cargo to pumps out an even more putrid smell. I've learned to plug my nose well in advance of these trucks because one sniff of that smell can put me into nauseous twitches. However, as I eye the trucks and walk by, it makes me wonder what holocaust has occurred today, and whether the dead is trying to speak to me from behind those metal walls. If there were humans trapped behind those walls I could do something; I could call it murder, and all would be shocked and horrified to find the hundreds of human bodies in those trucks. But the bodies that the trucks contain don't mean anything to anyone - at least not on a personal sense. Do you know that most of the cattle that is slaughtered is still alive and feeling and lowing after they're decapitated? Supposedly the cows are supposed to be given enough of a certain injection so that they're unconscious when they're killed, but since most cattle farms try to speed the process the cows get to cry as they die. I really don't know, though, what's in those trucks - all I know is that even after death it suffers.
The fourth truck contains those silent, sirene victims that lay passively on its flatbed. Sometimes I touch them and whisper "I'm sorry" as I walk by. These beautiful wonders that I derive much of my wisdom and patience from stand free less and less each day.
There is death all around me mostly seen in cutesty-wrapped, ready-to-go, Mickey Mouse packages. I smell death in the air; I see dead cats in my dreams; my face looks like death. Why I'm not dead yet, I don't know. I could have died several times over by this point in my life, but some force wishes me to remain. I've stopped arguing with that force, and plotting a demise which will never come anytime soon because of something that always prevents it. So I'm left to live in this world of death, and suffer this life with the rest.