THE MEAT PARLOUR

By Poppi Valen Hmelnitsky

Walking - I toss my head upwards -

Inhaling chestfulls of crimson rose, damp moss, adolescent thistle.

Yet, I sense things that tug lower, to the heart;

Sweet posy, sickly daffodil, outdated talcum powder;

The distinct rattle of chains, and the refraction of sharpened steal.

Some dank weight of meat,

Lugs its eternal body through the emptiness of air.

The machinery - its metallic clang

Appears as if an apparition before me

For I have arrived: it’s, The Meat Parlour.

Out in the dirt yard: beasts salivate, blood streaks, hooves collide.

Spit coagulates - drooling from parted jaws,

Silken. Swinging in rhythmic measures below quivering chins.

A cacophony of animalistic clamour

As units are dragged inside!

Hind legs clink together as chimes in the wind.

Smacked against tables tops,

And blood blows on glistening steel-

Blood - our eternal time-keeper.

The knife pulls-

I watch the blood cascade,

Explosive like a Rachmaninoff piano concerto.

The air is heavily perfumed: obnoxious and undignified.

For certain, it makes me gag to stand in such proximity.

Yet, the deluge is mesmerising.

I smear grotesque chunks of

Belly and short-rib over my skin;

Cradle rosy snout and loin.

I slip undecipherable lugs of meat into back pockets,

Crismon and warm;

Steal several trotters into the folds of my oversized scarf,

Rigor mortis clogging my clothing.

I curl my steady hands around the quivering pig’s heart,

I am chronically intoxicated by the sharp pungency.

Rhythmical resonance against my skin!

I sigh….in profound delight.

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