poetry critical

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Sliced and slaughtered,
all in a row,
herded to demise,
Still they ask where they "go."
Hockey pucks all raw and flushed,
Pink, on top of each other,
Things that had a life once upon a time.
The flesh chars all the same in the flame.
Was it a good steer who never did harm?
A rough, wild calf, that broke some girl's arm?
and eaten again.
Amusingly I see this all,
squashed in red and black,
hat over sweating, itching head.
Hair springs out like tufts of hay.
During this daydreaming I singe my hand,
and when looked down upon again,
I realize what cannibals we are.


23 Jan 07

(define the words in this poem)
(4 more poems by this author)

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Isn't cannibal someone who eats their own kind?  
 — unknown

Isn't an ignorant someone who shouldn't be critiquing on a poetry forum?

Learn metaphor, please.
 — unknown

 — ducktape

That doesn't change his point. Your metaphor doesn't quite fit. Be willing to accept that maybe you don't have the best word.
 — unknown

I was talking about consumerism, how in a way we sort of "consume" one another in the process of trying to reach the supposed "top." Oh well. I guess it wasn't right. It read alright to me. Maybe I'm just trying to delve in too deep without enough explanation?  :]
 — George_Goat