pyramids of dots

[Wrought Iron Hoof Heaver]

Ol’ Calculatorface swiveled in his arbitration 

chair, forehead glistening with the rift in slaughter

logistics plain as the beads on his abacus: 

 them pigs

got no hooves. How in bloody blazes’re they goinkta

waddle through them twisty halls on inta the slaughter

chamber? Little Whisp, bless him, wantsta just drag

the tazers an’ blades on through the messuva warehouse

an’ get the bloody oinkers where they’re just floppin

down an’ writhin’. Farfetched, yeh, fartetched. but what

else d’we got? Ain’t a whole slew’ve bester suggestions

cloggin’ up the thoughtubes. 

                            frig. it’ll for sure fright

the tiny oinklets into coarse meatmuscled slabs of scabby

pusschops that Loblaw’ll scoff at. 

 Lost in thoughts of renting

out a conveyorbelt route, Calculatorface licked a dribble

trolling past his lips, felt his frustration chameleon 

into a thoughtlocked sloth-haze. Jowels navigating gravity,

Calculatorface’s chin stumbled, abacus-bound, into 

his alabaster-beaded stress-wrought daydream. 

[image: youmakemefeel]