Here is a poem that I've been struggling to find an ending for. My original flash of creativity only ran as far as describing the event, beyond that was a blank. Over the past couple of weeks I have been trying out different endings, unsure of exactly what it is I want to say. But knowing that the central image is very powerful.
The Wednesday Pig
It
took the new owner some time to discern a pattern:
always
a Wednesday, day before pay day,
but
never more than once every four weeks
and
when it did happen, it was over so fast.
That's
when the recently acquired cctv came into its own,
turn
the big dial, slow the picture down
and
see the slaughter man,
who
liked to be called the butcher's assistant,
stuffing
fags inside his bloody overalls,
as
his cohorts chase a terrified pig out of the shop.
Press
the blue button watch it go into reverse,
caught
forever in grainy black and white.
The
Police were delighted, an easy result.
The
plucked him off the killing floor,
noting
the smile on his face as he cut a pigs throat.
The
abattoir was in the process of being taken over by a multi-national.
He
was told not to bother coming back,
then
fined an amount he paid piece meal.
He
was most upset they would not let him keep the knives.
I
met him a couple of years later,
he
was carrying the tools,
a
Fitter's Mate at Castners,
always
had a whetstone and a wicked thin knife.
First
impressions that he
was
not a man you could ever warm to,
were
confirmed when he told you about his hi-jinks,
rhapsodising
on the sounds a pig can make
as
you first stick your knife in.
What do you make of it?
I feel I need to leave you with something more inspiring. Here is Bob Marley and the Wailers live in Santa Barbara. Enjoy, it's a cracking concert.
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