A Green and Red Christmas

Red faces drooling over the table,

and nearby, basting, shoulders hanging loose,

the turkey time displaces, unable

to save itself, and my neck is a noose.

My morals cling to umbilical cords,

unstable. Bells ring that I should stick to

green veg playing chicken on chopping boards,

fumbling round fat and wild slaughterhouse goo.

It’s Christmas, and mouths stuffed silently bleed

thick gravy over worn out serving spoons,

make spaces for empty wastes that they need

to later dance, dolled up in poultry wounds,

and vulture the corpse they’ve misunderstood

– the anxious artifice sweats soya blood.


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