Abattoir –

The Butcher, Flesher, Slaughterhouse man, will have no trouble walking down stairs with a clear conscience.
Cutting up sentience can have awkward moments for a man, and he’s noticed, always, there aren’t many women who can hold a knife to a lamb’s face.
In those days of hanging around meat hooks, putting a drunkard’s white stripes on a red coat, a man can take pride in the abstract taste of ‘Barbarism’ from skilful delivery.
A butcher man says his prayers, runs rings around his rosary beads, not metaphysical insurance, not involuntary reflexes from ‘experiences’, not drawing out his public inhibitions for the supernatural in his private moments, but the tears of truth, that Jesus was ‘The Lamb’.

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