SHEEP
http://www.maverickmagazine.com/articles/152/1/SHEEP/Page1.html
Alice Bell
By Alice Bell
Published on 05/3/2002
This is how it goes: the lamb is bled,
And fed to stones, and mother, on a rope
Of clothesline, like a good absorbent pad,
Is tugged to messes, left in them to soak,
And fed to stones, and mother, on a rope
Of clothesline, like a good absorbent pad,
Is tugged to messes, left in them to soak,
This is how it goes: the lamb is bled,
And fed to stones, and mother, on a rope
Of clothesline, like a good absorbent pad,
Is tugged to messes, left in them to soak,
Or greet the raptures of some country fuck.
We cannot hide in sweaters, cannot hope
For wool to shelter us. They come and tuck,
They find our carnal gaps, examine, grope,
Plug up our nose and mouth to stop the bleating,
Wrap a sponge around us. Don't believe them.
Don't believe the farmer with his feed,
The warmth of sweaters, all you think you need,
It always leads to this: the kick and squeal,
The white thing shorn and naked in a field.
Copyright © Alice Bell, 2002. All Rights Reserved.
And fed to stones, and mother, on a rope
Of clothesline, like a good absorbent pad,
Is tugged to messes, left in them to soak,
Or greet the raptures of some country fuck.
We cannot hide in sweaters, cannot hope
For wool to shelter us. They come and tuck,
They find our carnal gaps, examine, grope,
Plug up our nose and mouth to stop the bleating,
Wrap a sponge around us. Don't believe them.
Don't believe the farmer with his feed,
The warmth of sweaters, all you think you need,
It always leads to this: the kick and squeal,
The white thing shorn and naked in a field.
Copyright © Alice Bell, 2002. All Rights Reserved.