Abattoir by Colin Carberry
The stench of knackered horse carcasses seethes
into noon’s flushed stagnant light. Each slow,
inescapable death breath blights, impedes,
confuses; hits home with a body blow’s
paralyzing insistence, Let me in.
My one fan whines full tilt, I try to write,
but the sweat sticks, rasps like a second skin.
A stoned sun blanks down on the same old shite.
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