processed meat

they come
for you
everyday,
with words
and smiles
in the guise of velvet
and halos,
blanketing
their pitchforks
and torches.

you propose a hand
and they accept this
in the habit
of cannibals.

the days become drums,
each day sprouting louder
and louder,
with the growth of gasoline fires,
spreading
to each and every cell
in your body,

and each beat blooms
more and more
until becoming a symphony
of monotonous noises.

it's then
that you're hit with the belief
that you are reaching
for nothing more
than the loudness
of being deaf.

and it's at this point,
with the smoke
and thunderstorms
in your ears,

and the buckets
are only there for milking
your eyes,

it's then
that you recognize
the process
of how meat is really consumed.