Us, and Death….

by Stark

Posted to Action Poetry on 2002-06-27 14:16:00

Us, and Death

During the daylight, the squeals and screams of butchered pigs are horror, but, at night, they are deep terror, a wholly more detestable feeling, internalised, self-reflected, and newly vulnerable. Wretched screams by day become the sirens of the subject’s soul by night. The dark, gripping undercurrent of the Barrow becomes a spirit after sunset, a manifestation of phantoms swirling devilishly in their astral-plane, waiting for another victim, satisfied for now by the diluted pig blood that trickles across the unlit pathway on which I pass. Between the desperate screams breath-like hums and groans of the factories fans possesses the ears almost completely: An airy, incessant, bass-deep, industrial purr – threatening, and powerful. The slippery walkway hugs the abattoir’s greasy walls in pre-graveyard darkness to one side, while, on the other, it gradually, indistinguishably melds with orange tinted grass, the outline of reeds, black water. Mingled with the high-and-deep-humming fans, there is a constant sound of spraying liquid splashing off a hard, concrete floor inside the factory, where pigs have their throats cut, while their blood is washed away only to surface here beneath my feet.
Above, the stars blink, and suggest judgemental eyes. Yes, by night this soulless surrounding penetrates the passing spirit, inspiring terror, a fear of the mystical significance these surrounding imply. By day, it only inspires disgust. By night, it inspires disgust, and also reverence – fear of retribution, the horror, and the terror of a specific life.
Past the abattoir, the pathway open into the burial ground…
We loiter this crumbled granite maze, gravestones covered in light and shade, wondering about existence, meaning, and death. How do we describe the experience of Existence? What, exactly, is meaning? What awaits us at death? We contemplate breath and unconscious distress.
This sun, beaming its divine light through a fresh chill breeze, comes to rest on my face, like a palm of Spirit in high contrast with my flesh…Concrete crosses sprout from fertile soils, casting irregular shadows on the bright green blades of wild grass that wave in the wind, reminders of the unremembered…subtle exposure to the unimaginable fate that calls us forth, but only so far.
So far as we see, so far…
Planes continuously lacerate the smooth blend of blue-capped sky. Two jets bisect their white spray plumes, forming an irregular geometry of unnatural heights. Truly, of the human mind; we etch ourselves above the clouds. And yet, we are light – the silhouettes of crosses stress and stretch in the setting sun – Elaine and Junior express their love as I perch myself atop this wall, the edge of an enclosed, central graveyard tomb. I survey the sun kissed mountainous horizon from the boundary of a Bishops resting place, seeing the bright green surface of the graveyard, blotted with tufts of dark green shade, and the shadows of broken stones. The weakened rays are snatched up by the life here as fast as they can be reflected off their surfaces. I notice epitaphs have been rubbed away by the air.



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