the slaughterhouse. amidst the confusion, its life is taken. in the aftermath, its murdered body is portioned and delivered to a delicatessen, where its various meats are displayed for public consumption.

i am that dumb dead creature. no one including myself is sure whether i went wantingly, by force or through some sort of trickery, and no one especially myself is sure whether he is truly a ruthless butcher or if i simply fell onto his knife...makes no difference now - i am lost to the living. all that remains are these songs like carcass flesh: digits severed from their owning limbs, muscles filleted from their rightful bones, organs carved out from their embracing cavities.

so...
is it a coffee house or a bar? a nightclub or an arena? is it radio or television? is it wholesale or retail? is it art, is it voyeurism, or is it business?

for me, it is nothing but a deli vitrine. here are my cold cuts - my story, my existence, my demise, on display for all to see, to ridicule, to judge. anyone can buy and eat or just walk away. anyone can make me, break me or ignore me.

go ahead, you decide.