"Wading neck deep in a swamp, your revolver is neither use nor ornament until you have had time to clean it" Mary H. Kingsley (1897)



Sometimes walking late at night

I stop before a closed butcher shop.

There is a single light in the store

Like the light in which the convict digs his tunnel.


An apron hangs on the hook:

The blood on it smeared into a map

Of the great continents of blood,

The great rivers and oceans of blood.


There are knives that glitter like altars

In a dark church

Where they bring the cripple and the imbecile

To be healed.


There is a wooden block where bones are broken,

Scraped clean– a river dried to its bed

Where I am fed,

Where deep in the night I hear a voice.


“Butcher Shop”  by Charles Simic



To plunder, butcher, steal, these things they misname empire: they make a desolation and they call it peace.”

Tacitus ( 55 AD – 120 AD)



2 responses

  1. Not good food for dreams … a different route perhaps.

    January 29, 2011 at 9:09 am

    • It’s a part of life we usually choose to look away from…

      January 29, 2011 at 9:15 am

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