Meat market

The hungry carnivore needs feeding. With precision he explores the market. Don’t touch. The sign states. The sign is ignored.

The callous carnivore allots a price tag to each piece of meat. Never taught to self-correct, he pleads ignorance. What is innate cannot be undone.

Don’t lecture me.

The meat is central but he and his urge take centre stage. A piece of cow. A piece of mare. A piece of ewe. A piece of bitch. Judged. Slaughtered. Served. Delicious delicacies on a platter of shame.

Each piece faceless. Discardable. Its taste disappoints. It is sent back with slapdash arrogance. Typical.

The undergrads learn from the masters. Like beasts in the savannah, they learn to prey on the flesh. Excused and unchecked. They are taught to demand. They are taught to attack. They are taught to carry on the meat market.

The meat objects.

I can’t hear you. The carnivore is neither deaf nor stupid. He is just himself.

He is male.

#felicityfauxpas #poemsbyfelicity #meatmarket #observationsfromthemetropolis #womendoart #womendopoetry

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Lifestyle blogger sarcastically commenting on observations in the Metropolis. Overthinking and introverted.

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