Factory Farm sounds on a hot summer’s night

The squeal of the animals
can you believe?
this is not Hell
sanity you deceive
those of us hearing
this for the first time
festering somewhere
on walls of slime

with blue bottles darting
both forwards and back
clearly we felt under
an attack
as blood coughs and splutters
the orgy of sin
erupts from the throats
where the vile sounds begin

in the battle for life
that engages the soul
that pressures the mind
and exceeds all control
with blood curdling cries
on our knees we set down
where wrath finds its seat
and as such we all drown

rasping aloud
as clouds do appear
the cries of the dying
are heard on the ear
as hordes now descend
a great army divides
attacking within
and on all different sides

eggs cracked and bereft
spent bodies left
feathers torn out
in a frenzy of dance
pecking is wrecking
perhaps the only chance

the squeals rise and fall
a wretched pall
escapes and survives
some of those lives
a mantra of might
with the brutish of bite
comes out of the night
as each soul now takes flight

a miasma evolves
in the vileness revolves
curling up to the sky
like a Bat who doth try
to escape in its way
to rise and so play
in the thermals a while
trying to reconcile

we dare not perceive
no one doth believe
the cries that we hear
are the true sounds of fear
that emanate rapidly
as of their right
to explode in a sensory
salvo of might

a chorus of sound
that can only astound
the gentle take fright
as great shadows alight
as the sickle survives
cutting this way and that
through dozens of lives
in to cells into fat

the muscles of many
the sinews of some
breakdown in the heat
and the rule of the thumb
is to wander afar
but imprisoned we be
clasped in the bosom
of angst ever free

choking and chafing
pain driven sounds
cantankerous comment
now doing the rounds
vile innuendo
expletives that roar
in the factory farm
no one is sure

what it is
what it was
whether it was alive
in the land of the crazies
few do survive
the moronic marauders
troll like and grotesque
who fret in the moonlight
from behind their desk

these are the CAFO men
swarthy and lean
who left their hearts some where
and since then have been
lost in the shadows
gripped by each dawn
hateful and brutish
each devilish morn

they rise with the lark
and corrupt all who see
into their eyes
they stare constantly
upwards and sideways
and into beyond
paid up and ready
to quickly abscond