CHICKENS
I hunt. Born to slay. Stalk. Pounce. Slaughter. A high stakes game of chicken. The more I kill. The more I need. To kill. Every town. Every county. Every backwoods farm. Has chickens. Clucking. Clacking. Strutting. Buck buck bucking.
The colonel has come home to roost.
Pecking and bobbing and poking and pecking and bobbing and pecking and poking. They peck poison. Poison seed. My seed. Hot chicks ingesting my very seed. Groggy. Unsuspecting. Chickens.
Into the henhouse. Underneath the coop. Too late to chicken out. Hands fondle eggs. Handle eggs. Fondle eggs. The unborn. Yolk between my fingers. I smear death. Across my cheeks. War paint.
Chickens. Can smell fear. Can taste pain. Can see death. But don’t count your chickens before they’re dispatched.
I attack. Screaming foul. They run like a chicken with its head about to be cut off. The pollos are loco. Come to me ladies; I’m a chick magnet. My pulse quickens. Fingers. On their legs. On their breasts. Encircling feathered throats. Squeezing. Grinding. Kneading. Needing to kill. Choking the chicken. Finger lickin’.
They scream my name. No. They are silent. Dead. Stay dead. I win. Winner winner, chicken dinner.
I slaughter chickens. Not as a job. As an adventure.
The colonel has come home to roost.
Pecking and bobbing and poking and pecking and bobbing and pecking and poking. They peck poison. Poison seed. My seed. Hot chicks ingesting my very seed. Groggy. Unsuspecting. Chickens.
Into the henhouse. Underneath the coop. Too late to chicken out. Hands fondle eggs. Handle eggs. Fondle eggs. The unborn. Yolk between my fingers. I smear death. Across my cheeks. War paint.
Chickens. Can smell fear. Can taste pain. Can see death. But don’t count your chickens before they’re dispatched.
I attack. Screaming foul. They run like a chicken with its head about to be cut off. The pollos are loco. Come to me ladies; I’m a chick magnet. My pulse quickens. Fingers. On their legs. On their breasts. Encircling feathered throats. Squeezing. Grinding. Kneading. Needing to kill. Choking the chicken. Finger lickin’.
They scream my name. No. They are silent. Dead. Stay dead. I win. Winner winner, chicken dinner.
I slaughter chickens. Not as a job. As an adventure.