Abattoir

Abattoir

by Cam M. Roberts

 

(for Gordon Ramsay)

 

Bit strange me thinks, for I see nearly half an hour’s passed since dinner service commenced,
and we’ve like saints waited for your stubborn herb-crusted rack of lamb.  So… have you wasted
our time and negated our efforts (once again)?  Are you slow on the uptake by your own volition,
or are you glacial by nature?  Dead air determines our answers.  I await your retort, it’s not
a dissertation. Your attention please, hello, answer much?  Bollocks, I implore you, dead weight,
cinder blocks, bobble-head dumber than a bucket of rocks, quit sandbagging me laddy, he listens
not.  Yonder bowed up plank of wood — plump knot filibustering the saw-tooth blade —
wary despondent lumberjack, go fetch my axe. [The Lambs called, they want the Silence back.]
Unfathomable discordant encumbrance. Go to then, move it — already I’ve a splitting headache
from the general idiocy of the mundane, so don’t couple it with your being an unnecessary pain
in my arse.  Thus, I beseech you: Swiftly, swiftly — Yes?  This should be interpreted as:
Better make haste!”  Good lord, where’s a goddamn sheepdog when you need one?  
We go through this every single week, excruciating tedium, now I’m having to spoon feed you
Gerber as if you’re an imbecilic infant who’s refused his puréed fava beans.  Just make some progress,
since this is imperative to the idea of apprenticeship, thus be it deemed essential to your pensum.
I swears, it’s as if you’re some highly meticulous, overly cautious three-toed Sloth —
you’re neither old nor obese, but you are painstakingly slow nonetheless: If I told you to “haul ass”
you’d take two maybe three round-trips using the longest route possible whilst making frequent
pit-stops to devoid your bladder and bowels, and lest not forget those gratuitous cigarette breaks.
Extraordinarily worthless lollygagger!

 

O’ blast it to bloody hell and back — Hey, Donkey!  Yes, you, the only one in the stable.  Come hither,
daft prat with withers!  Not only is the Ba-Ba-Black Sheep still as stone-cold as a wetted slab of slate
in shadows at daybreak, but alas remains a visceral bloodbath spreadeagled perpetuum immobile
upon the algid iron of your purgatorial skillet, undoubtedly raw flanks of vapid carcass not-prepared
but poked, prodded, and played with more than a pornographic film star’s twat.  As if your burner
were actually on — Pathetic!  Terrible slobbering toddler behavior! Give me the spatula, hand it over,
you might hurt yourself or someone else or do something as equally dreadful.  Pah!  Ridiculous!
Rife in a profusion of inadequacies.  I am flabbergasted beyond all reckoning — Tell me,
how could I take you seriously?  An overdose of Delirium.  You must be joking, poor bastard.
You’re not even an amateur, you are (at best) an unintelligible novice: a horrendous facsimile,
a runt court-jester, a torpid worm, a grunting poser, a syndicated dumb-show, a peddler of lesser
counterfeit things, a bootleg-alabaster statue manufactured out of styrofoam and plaster,
a sullied shard of paraphernalia, a quagmire of coagulated bong-water, a vinegary overripe
shitty Merlot, a rancid pong of rotten lobster bisque souring in a saucepan then poured into
a copper pot of lardy broth, a throngless vomiting albatross, a carrion hybrid of charlatan
and harlot, an obtrusive vulture gobbling up the roadkill of global culture: conclusion,
a microwave can-opener cook. By all means persuade me otherwise to look upon you more favorably,
you’re a miserable monstrosity.  Sorry I’m not sorry, because I mean it, why else.  Such a piss-pot 
slipshod chef as ever I’ve seen, for the love of god can’t you feel exothermic heat, you’re searing chops 
of meat for Christ’s sake.  I’ve seen a Parisian Octogenarian Street Mime with a bad case of the shakes cook a meal with five times more grace, dexterity, and overall skill than this half-ass shit you’ve so
poorly engendered: accursed concoction — Mercy, you’ve taken more piss out of me than a catheter.
Hark, the sniveling wanker!

 

Go down and withdraw —
persona non grata:
Exit the clown.
Fuck off!

 

© CMR, 2014
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The Spectacular Origin of Theatre

The Spectacular Origin of Theatre

by Cam M. Roberts
(for Lisa Weller)

When you accost
the sheerness of the garb
which sprawls those surfaces
of privacy –  
the bodily dressing –  
You are nuanced no more
in the guise of gaudy design. 
 
You pull the stitches taut,
You fit into it,
Neither resembling Atwood’s accusation:
 
            You fit into me
            like a hook into an eye
 
            a fish hook
            an open eye *
 
Thus you fit into it
As if
Some magical flaw,
Flocking the prenatal womb
Of whence you came.
 
The thread reinforced,
Crossed, looped over
And under and again
And again and so on
And so forth –
Like the memory
Of an ocean wave,
Aquatic servitude
To pummeling amnesia.
 
Yes, actors, you are privileged
To stand still
While sizing up your
Anatomical dimensions
And your vanity’s ego. 
 
You must be calm,
stop spreading, look up,
straight, hang that up,
you’re late, you’ve lost
weight, fold along the crease,
not water-based, use the grease
paint, pants up to your waist,
wear a slip for heaven’s sake.
No, you’ll break it, that costs
Money kid, dammit, I’m tired,
I’m sick, I’m through
With this fucking bullshit!
 
As a rendering, all that’s needed
Is for the actor to be – to act, so to speak –
Like a blank inanimate canvas
To essentially have the imagined creation
Sketched ebulliently upon the fabric. 
Displayed like the synapses
Rapid-fire, shooting sparks onto
The page, the pistons pumping
Through the tight twitch.
The thundering spindle
Weaving a metronome of fibers
From the sewing machine –
Giving birth to genius
Looming textile opuses
From the needling wand;
The nimble hot and eroded
On the thumb –
 
I am the best you’ll ever have
Child, remember that,
I’m the leaves from the Garden of Eden
You snatched from the tree
To hide your body
You discovered;
A rather reluctant exhibitionist – woe is you –
Even the most corrupt eyes can shut to cover the rest of you:
Afterwards, your indulgences
At which you devoured the apple
Hooking your teeth into God’s eye;
Then God decided you were
Imperfect, Unfit, Unclean.
Thus, the mere sight
Of your naked bodies became
The barbed hooks
Impaling the bulging tight
Bloodshot eyes of yourself
And the other,
They’re all Screaming in horror, in horror –
 
This element is coded like blood
Sifting through the veins
Upon the zip, out of the buttoning up,
The tying of laces, the fastening of belts,
The brushing of lent, the collar adjusting
To your neck like a serpentine noose –
 
You are hidden and vanity takes you
To the necessity of circumstance,
A creation from the centre of the prophetic
Brain of which is born boldly
With posture rectified
And nuance rusticated
From the core of conceptual
Bliss; the dwelling space
Of enigma.
 
The glow commences as if
An impatient daybreak
Tore back and opened
The curtains of clouds
And melancholic falling night. 
The stagnant veal shorn off
In such frantic entropy.
 
The intangible thinking,
Stands incarnate
Stunning the perceptual
In-ward look –
 
A welcomed delusion,
A sideward step in another direction –
Whether shoes, worlds, lights, speeches, color of hues.
The costume is the thing – 

And you are not you. 

 

© CMR, 2013