Farm

There is much comedy in a tragic life. Beatings and whips laugh through an door open.

Hinges squeal at the oiled pain and cutlery rests easy.

Unzip the belly and let the screams find the trees. Roots to rust.

Stone and weeds mingle to earn a future. Teets from Martini bottles warm in the winter light. Hunger squeals from fields and it wakes the nation.

Goats and pigs and chickens. A raw lease of life. Morning life. Chaos, pork and eggs. A band of scruffies set a scene of laughter. Giggle and be defeated. Lose the light and pretend.

Laugh at the sun and laugh at the moon. Day sends duty and night spins a dark yarn.

Funny how shadows spiral and sunlight takes offence. Backwards and dangerous.

Animals guffaw at the flailing bodies. Idiots in boiler-suits splutting feed from left to right. The day has just begun. We have heat lamps they say and they settle into warm straw.

The feet move the body but the brain stems the flow. Neurons take on tendons and will them for a fight. Tendons give way and let the head take charge. 

“He lost his finger during harvest. Look.”

“Phh, yer man, over the hill. He lost an arm tossing bales.”

“How?”

“Two tractors.”

“OK, what about old Sidney. He lost his left leg after being kicked by a horse.”

“By a horse?”

“Smacked him plum. Booted him after kicking out. Got him right above the knee. The leg was done.”

“Jesus.”

“Never mind that. What about the young lad who was pulled through the combine?”

“Over the way?”

“Over the way.”

“Go on.”

“He was hooked, wasn’t he?”

“Hooked?”

“The auger. Hooked him in. Spike picked his pocket and he got dragged through. Straight under without a breath. He came out mincemeat and the dog lapped him up. Bits and bobs. Young lad.

“Did they finish the field?”

“I reckon so.”

“Well, then.”