Past The Silo

past the silo

cattle’s  

corralled 

for slaughter,

screams savage

the serene

as a young girl

unfurls 

her dreams

onto the floor 

of a trailer park store, 

she has one dollar,

she can buy gum

or choose to run,

her future – hung

in the family abattoir,

her young skin 

butchered 

by a belt buckle,

she swallows 

the hurt,

her mother,

a chain-smoking  

gas station clerk

uses her staff discount 

to buy Lucky Strike 

cigarettes in bulk,

she furiously smokes

whilst taking 

an occasional Toke 

on her crackpipe,

she spends her nights

feverishly munching bags 

of Bugles, glued 

to dull infomercials

promising to 

“sell you a dream,

or your money back”

she’s too in love 

with her crack 

to make the call,

it’s either ‘her junk’

or nothing at all,

there’s no time 

like the present 

to ditch this 

shit ridden desert

for some prime 

real estate

but it’s far too late, 

crack-whores  

and their waster 

husbands

can’t afford 

the current 

mortgage rate,

nowadays

‘father’ rarely works,

the jerk

sits on the porch

day in, day out 

drinking warm cans 

of Pabst Blue Ribbon

and spitting 

chewing tobacco 

at the flies circling 

a barrel of pig hoofs, 

he despises time

it drags, 

lags, 

nags,

years turn 

to decades 

and with age 

comes 

the savage 

realisation

he’s murdered 

tens of thousands

of livestock

and he still can’t

afford a clock 

that works

or a cooler

to keep his 

beer cold,

back at the store

no gum was sold,

his little girl 

chose to run 

whilst her mum 

stared intently 

into a lighter flame

impregnating the tip

of her cigarette,

her daughters face

she’ll soon forget,

father won’t care

he’ll just sit and stare,

tightening his tourniquet

and with a simple pin prick

he’ll take the pain away,

past the silo 

there’s a highway

that leads nowhere,

from afar you 

can see an old abattoir

that’s fallen into disrepair,

a broken family 

use to live there,

rumour has it 

the crackpipe took

the mother’s life,

the father found

his happiness in

“a warm gun”,

whilst their 

little girl

chose to run,

occasionally 

in the dead 

of night,

when the wind 

directions right

the screaming

and crying 

of cattle led 

to slaughter 

still haunts 

the daughter 

no matter 

how far 

she runs