Pigs


Scowling windows, unhinged mouth, blood boiled
veins and a wall down the middle; they’re the
devil’s finger puppets. They raise the precious
daises, water the children’s garden, then cut
the stems and place them in a vase.
Full of piss, full of oil, full of themselves inside
and out; they hide in their house and shut every
open threshold. One can usually find them in the
countryside, lungs thick and full of hot air
like a summertime tent revival.
Snake handlers, twisted tongues, they claim to
be His voice, but channel evil in the form hymns
and washed feet. Muddy hooves, squealing primitive
arrogance, a lesson taught by their fathers,
hatched from the fool’s gold egg.
In order to be a wolf in sheep’s clothing, one must
be clever, sharp as a splinter and snuggle beneath
the skin. Instead, these little piggies believe they
can withstand the carnivore’s huff and puffs when
they’re already in its belly.
To keep from being regurgitated and forced to
see the light, they spread stomach acid in the
graveyard as a mother morns her bundle of sticks.
These swines, they light twigs and burn her at
the stake as a cursed witch.
Or they drown her in a sea filled with tears to see
if she floats, because the queer, dead apple of her eyes
is a fruit they refuse to taste. But deep down, under the
lard and sticky sweat, some of them desire the tree’s gift:
A weeping willow’s seed.
However, they cut it down to keep themselves from
growing, destroy every leaf and twig and use the bark
to make paper in books they’ll never read. Instead,
the hogs channel misguidance like a palm reader who
can’t find a nail wound in a hand.
Hateful eyes, snorting snouts, squealing and dumb,
the pigs’ mind is encased in doorless room of thick bricks
built by  the unknowing, the disgust, the hollow monument
that stands tall and proud. And their need to destroy
is only but a broken mirror.
It’s the reflection they hate more than the pupils which
don’t belong to them, and the blind only gauge those who
see the truth. A lie upon lie, a scar on a scar, a hole that
digs itself closer to the smoldering pits of Hell, where
every made bed must be occupied.
They are damned and doomed, crawling straight into
the slaughterhouse’s relentless snare and anointed by a
sledgehammer. The big G, the big government, the desired
acceptance, a perfect lie branded on their thighs. This is
what they’ve grown to become.
09.28.16.
Advertisements

Published by

craneknewitt

I have currently been busy with life and I will be re-publishing older poems. New poems will come. I'm always under construction.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s