The Rabbit Farmer

Published February 24, 2014 by B. Rabbit

This idea came to me last night. I took a couple of notes before I fell asleep and finished with it today.

The Rabbit Farmer

What detachment
it must require
to raise your own meat.
What cold and clinical
mental sterility.

The rabbit in the cage thinks
you a god.
Food, water, clean straw,
a kind word if you allow–
all delivered by your calloused hand.

There never was a god who didn’t
require sacrifice.
As above, so below.
Be capricious, so long as you call it love.
(And make sure the knife is sharp.)

It takes but one quick motion
to slice a life
right out of a quivering throat.
Do it right, and
your hands don’t even get dirty.

Crimson blood stains white fur
never before sullied.
The gentle hand on the back
does nothing to kill
the terror.

A beast, however stupid, still knows a Judas kiss.
And some part of it,
some collective unconsciousness,
surely remembers the gods’ needs
for betrayal and burnt offerings.

And so, god of treachery,
what would you do
if you knew
that bunny’s
last despairing thought?

There’s no such thing as love.
There’s no
such thing
as love.








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