Thread: No Shelter

Stay out of my hen house,
keep your fingers off my flesh.
I collected these ivory bone eggs
to be split on a panting pan.

It was my hands that uprooted the soil,
dug out the autumn carrots
and bled them on this stained board.

Your muttered morsels will not warm you
when the sun staggers down,
and the bone gnawers smell
the weakness of your soft body.

I'll kneel by the embers,
tattered arms taking their due,
while you sing out your agony.

Brutus will paw the door,
tired dog heart beating in your favor -
But words cannot fill bellies
and the life grown from my gardens
is not easily shared.

could i share to say this piece reminds me of my chicken coupe in the back
no chickens tho

and could i ask why brutus is the name of the dog?

E tu, Brute? (I say, wot now? Damned dog's supposed to be "mans'" best friend, anyway)

i see...was thinking to deeply to times of caesar
assasination of the salad? guess not

Hi Damien,
I sort of liked this, well struggled with it in a positive way.
If you are the guy with the hen house and carrots, was I the dog?
And why is it so difficult to share the garden's produce?
Are we talking metaphor? If so is it a specific one? Or can I hang it on what ever I fancy?

Well, I was either going for an apocalyptic future, where food is hard to come by, or pioneer times. When food was hard to come by. And the guy is some wandering poet, but you really can't give him food or you'll starve. And you're struggling with feelings of guilt because he's being eaten alive at night. Or, you know, it could be open to whatever interpretation you want.

Cool, post apocalyptic poetry. It actually helps to know that, it makes a bit more sense than my allotment related interpretation.
Thanks.