Matthew Newton

What the Message Was: (part five) by Matthew l Newton

If I dreamed I was a headless chicken, prancing around the yard spilling slick red juice all over my brothers, my useless beak saying a final prayer to the butchery; who would be the farmer? I imagin them there, those fellow bankers, skimming the fat from foaming vats of currancy, mans abondant wishes fullfilling them. Those that were to me my employed, and whos work weighed more then a bucket of shit. Yes they, the toiling would farm the lot, and I the chicken be slaughtered. I the hapless, worthless, feathers of dusted eggs, skat bait trailings. Once I was a man worth saving. Once I was a man. Once I had a time to go to, or a wage to inspire, yet the wage I pay now is rotted like the trash that holds be prone. I am that of a penny, this once loved, coveted coin.

“Get out you bum!!”

The gloves are back on me again and I’m lifted from the back of the truck and thrown out onto the street.

“Thanks for the ride, fuckbags.” I scream after them as the truck and its contents roll down to their next pick up. Which, ironically was only a few feet away.

Matthew Newton
DOC #81868

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