Satisfying suffering

We turn them out on factory lines
packed in plastic
or pastry. We steel their peace,
stay them in bladed fields
of limited release:
seasonally serviced,
then served up with seasoning. Oh,
how we love them on dough,
stuff them tight inside slivered intestines
like marrow.

We observe the absurd on a Friday night
as top-flight flirts gnaw
flightless thighs; delighted words
between the guys are interspersed
with liver's worst: turned to paste.

We commoditise life, license lies.
By lifeless drives, soul expires:
drowned in dollars. Our own spiky collars
can't puncture our bubbles. We bounce
on the satisfying suffering of others.