by Graham Catt

    the herd rests
    in a refridgerated graveyard
    body parts wrapped in plastic

    hearts that no longer beat
    tongues pulled from mouths
    that no longer cry nor bleat

    the sounds of dismemberment
    masked by muzak, hidden
    behind clean white surfaces

    thin layers of mist drift
    above the carnage, like ghosts
    grazing in pastures of flesh

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