The elegant Slaughterhouse

On the table, there's a few piles, of paper ,
on some of them, in some place,
the silver dust has flown away,
and where the halides and tones are gone
there's a sharp, clean incisive cut

Go, now, get out of here.

Everywhere around there's faceless flesh
hanging , ornate, from the walls
Don't stay here go, on every sides there's
Broken limbs, that don't belong to anyone,
caught in the midst, of a painful contraction.

This is an elegant slaughterhouse,
where there's no blood to be smelled
but where lingers, the slight scent
of the noxious solvents,
that scoured away the corpses features.

Get out, run. Get out of here,

of the bloodless slaughterhouse, sure
In these rooms there's only space,
for frames and none for portraits. sure
it's clean; no dust no stains just

a calm and composed display
of nameless thighs, muted hues
of decaying meat ,marrows, wrists,
with no bearings or titles - no carnage,
only layers, of faint carnal shades

Get out of here, get out

of the slaughterhouse with elegant doors.