As i pull up and park I dread the sight that has become so familiar;
The sickening smell so haunting but turning the everyday.
Splatters of sepia septic blood blending in to grey polluted air.
The van gaping and ready to gobble the grotesque forms and figures
looms.
Flung over dirty back staining stench drenched suit...
Fleshy mounds of putrid fat hard to seperate from the living,
Veiny gelatonous pulsing body lumped over the daily grind.
A treat for consumption.
A disturbing delectability for the eyes, the nose, the mind.
Cold. Hard. Slaughter.
The distaste of the dead.
Not a head just body after body after body,
Misformed mountain.
Cracked ribs in broken trolly beign whelled past it's end.
Rotting, wretched creature, yet not,
The soul has past?
Yet... so in human. SO ROUGH. MORE THAN I CAN TAKE.
Clinicality lost, crulety lost, just pure objecthood.
The objecthood of the dead.
The objecthood of the living.
The dread
The dead
Oh how I hate that bloody bitter carcas van.
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