Sunday, 17 June 2012

Lunar Abattoir


Our greaser guide smokes a yellow, tarry cigarette. Wears a lime green hi-viz, the white dome of a hard hat. His enthusiasm for showing us this other world is somehow charming. He doesn’t get to do this thing very often. You can imagine the banter in the silvery hut where a red top newspaper lies folded on the table next to a half-empty bottle of brown sauce. The crusting ooze gathered around the bottle’s neck.

Supply your own conversation here. We don’t remember a word. Smell that? Methane. Flocks of gulls kept away by the netting.

Crusting earth to gather soups and oils, rags and bones, cans and paper. He leads us on, into this other world, the abattoir of consumption, taking his task very seriously as a guide in a cathedral or stately home. 


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