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I Bleed for This? 031
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---------------------------- I Bleed for This? ------------------------------
------11.26.94-----------------------------------------------------#031------
Poetboy Goes to the Zoo
by Snarfblat
Poetboy arrived at the school with a smile on his face, for today was
the day of the class field trip. They were going to the zoo. During the bus
ride to the zoo, the teacher told them a few rules. "Now children, your
visit to the zoo will be much more fun and educational if you follow these
simple rules. One: Do not pet the animals. Two: Do not feed the animals.
Three: If something says 'DO NOT TOUCH', don't FUCKING touch it!" At this
point she pulled the glove off her left hand to reveal a scarred stump with
the remains of two fingers dangling limply from it.
When they got to the zoo, everybody except Poetboy went inside. Poetboy
stayed on the bus and wrote a poem. Then he got off and looked for his
class. He went into a building that looked like a zoo. Inside it, he saw
long rows of cages with animals in them. Some of them were being fed by
tubes because their mouths were sewn shut. Others were eating white-out with
their eyes. Poetboy didn't know why there were so many rabbits in the zoo
and no other animals. And he wasn't too sure if they enjoyed having their
skin peeled off and being dunked in vats of perfume.
He pulled out his notebook, sat down and wrote a poem.
Oh, wee bunnies, how harsh is your plight!
would that you could escape into the night
your skin all peeled off, your mouth stapled shut
needles in your eyes and a tube in your butt
who will stop this mutilation?
carry out your liberation?
i'd love to help you, to save you all.
every time i put on the damn radio there's nothing going down at all.
Poetboy memorized this poem, then rolled it up and smoked it.
At this point, the teacher led the rest of the class into the building full
of bunnies. "Class, this is where the bad animals go. It is called the
Gilette Product Testing Facility. Dangerous chemicals are poured onto their
raw, exposed endoskeletons, so that the products can be made safe for
humans."
One little girl, named Sarah, spoke up. "Teacher, why don't they test these
chemicals on people?"
"Good point. Most of you are essential workers. But Poetboy over there,
he's just writing poems and smoking them. He contributes nothing to the
group as a whole. Let's mess him up!"
The class, led by their teacher, attacked Poetboy and tied him up. Then they
shot him. Then they skinned him. They drew a graph on his raw, exposed
endoskeleton and numbered each sector, then poured a different toxic chemical
on each one. Some of the sectors bubbled and frothed; others turned red,
others black and crusty. Poetboy's tongue (Area #42) was dipped in a vat of
pure, concentrated Yellow #5, which worked its way up into his mouth,
spreading slowly throughout his whole body. He crumpled to the ground, a
skinless jaundiced pulp. A pack of wild dogs launched themselves onto his
back and bit off his hands. They ripped the muscles away from his spine, and
with the help of Poeyboy's teacher, disconected it at the base of his brain
and pulled it backwards. By now he was pretty dead. The last thing he was
conscious of was his eyes being eaten out by newts. Then he lapsed into a
pain-induced coma.
His songs never again smudged the air.
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IBFT: If we hate you, you don't deserve to know why.
Information:
bleed@unix.amherst.edu
ftp.etext.org:/pub/Zines/IBFT The Eleventh Hour (617)696-3146
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