Brittle and broken to the Highway of Leach
The pallets of dead chicens come;
At night they squawk and shine above the chunder,
But morning sees them struck dumb.
After the night-clubbing custom of the drive-thru
A team member, going forward, has time for this,
To pluck them from the heights, unplug them,
And drape the wire around their nakedness;
And each bird, having been a salty and fatty siren,
Bears the last graffiti of heart-diseas’d men,
Written with such perplexity, with such bewildered pity,
The words choke as they begin –
‘What you lookin’ at cunt?’ – the stolen Texta
Wavers and fades, the urine drips,
The bile of late night has washed their inscriptions,
On their utes they have dropped their chips.
Chicen or rooster, searching for the same landfill,
Whether as competitors they fought,
Or together battl’d the Arches; the tip joins them together,
Dead on an eastern front.