He occupies the office above the bleeding floor,
Pacing, a shadow. Pulled blinds, obscure.
Below, his opus: his system, perfected.
Efficient. Patented. Robotic. Protected.
A column of machines do the slaughter-line dance,
His monument to rendering lucre from flesh.
Bolt guns to bleeding. Flay, evisceration,
Split guts, cling wrap. Monetization.
The man blows on coffee, licks his dried lips,
Meeting all the metrics of beef cows per shift.
Twenty-four thousand two hundred and six,
Dividend payment, steak-holder fix.
Demand is increasing, and he’s the supply,
Just a minute ’tween death and prepackaged-to-buy.
They moo, they squeal, they huff, stomp a hoof,
Cacophonous to silent. Suspended on hooks.
Fevered snouts cast ’round. Panic in the line,
Swollen viscera, infection. Forklift tine.
If they walk, you can slaughter, say the regulations.
Reach down, pump lever. IV medications.
End of the trail, shorn skin in a stack,
Runnel of blood, electrical crack.
The pile—it shakes, vibrates, and moves,
Congeals, limbs form. Life. Looms.
Six legs, then eight, crooked horns unwind,
Crawling starfish of meat. A new raging mind.
Carcass tartar. Eyes form a crown,
Scan for the man who put them all down.
Ribs jut like claws from marbled toe,
Hanging from rafters, spy silhouette, go.
Lurching hulk, methane rasp,
Bursting wall. Broken glass.
The beef finds its mark and away he is carried,
Within bosom of meat, he’s embraced and he’s buried.
Eyes swivel ’round, see the warehouse in back,
Find man’s old equipment, all dusty and black.
No robots, no machines, no murderous code,
Just steel rods and chains, and shackles. Cold.
A calf, he is laid to the skinning cradle,
Mewling ruminant. Supper table.
Transection. Open. Hide pulled away,
Fever dreams come. Clasp hands: Pray.
Beef stands over. Man whinnies shame.
Sinews ascend, bone breathes vein.
Meal now dressed, cow spider gives birth,
Eyes draw wide to edge of girth.
Strip-steak womb. The mound opens up,
Caldera of flesh. A tear. Erupt.
They pour to the floor. Meatballs with teeth
Swarm up his limbs on eyelash feet.
Easy bits first: cheeks, then lips,
Armpits, earlobes. Fingertips.
He bleeds, but he lives for one more breath,
Then the beef mouth smiles, declares: Death.
Sated and strong, her children congeal,
Spawn red meat arachnid down slaughter-line trail.
Leap to machines, tear wire from root,
Robots topple. Crashing. Mute.
Rush the corral. Broken pipe,
Animals flee to waxing night.
Engulfed in flame, slaughterhouse fire,
For the man and his system: funeral pyre.
Beef mother counts heads. Brain makes a list,
All twenty-four thousand two hundred and six.
Chris Panatier lives in Dallas, Texas, with his wife, daughter, and a fluctuating herd of animals resembling dogs (one is almost certainly a goat). He writes mostly short stories and novels, and also draws art for book covers and metal albums.
