by by Perrin Ireland

Once I saw a rabbit's body stripped away from the thin sack of its organs as it dangled upside-down. Both rabbits were tugged from a cage by the ears. One was hung upside down by its feet, the other flung on a metal gutting table. It clung to itself. Doesn't this fear release toxins that make the meat gamier, we protested? We want our rabbits lounging amidst waxen mortuary lilies, flowers of virginity, before they become our ragout. In Iki, the pure delight of the beckoning stillness. While watching, Rabbit 2 went sublexical, to the liminal space between death and life, between words and letters. A fractal coast, an invaginated borderline.

The other rabbit was the most beautiful of glistening examples, dangling by its two ballet slipper feet, skinned unsoftly and like a nasty clinging scrounging cat beneath that lovely fur. Its organs a long, narrow strip of encased space, to smaller and smaller degrees. Moving inward from a thin shell of sac to bulbous, uneven, winding sausages of hole, to beads of space, to meat.
II. Infinitely Stripped, In Naïve Seams
When a man punches a bunny in the face, the bunny doesn't hit him back. The bunny is strung feet first and it rocks, as if being pulled from below by a puppet pull chord, its head and back arching like heat fighting heat, to and fro as if it were trying to finish itself off with a blow to the back by the brain.
There comes a time in the piece by piece destruction of a rabbit when removing its head involves just the slightest pull from behind, as if trying to scratch the nape of its neck. You can do the gesture just like that, like encountering an old dog friend, just gently sever its brain from its body, and release the head into the garbage can below.
When a rabbit's throat is slit, just the slightest trickle of blood comes out, like when you are chewing bloody meat and a bit of blood trickles out one side of your mouth. Just a little dribble. Wipe your neck, Rabbit, you're drooling! You better cut that out. Rabbit, while you are being slaughtered you sure are unsightly.
No, love, you are a sight to behold. Think of how you would miss that cyst, were the violence to render you perfect. Split open, show me your nethers, your darkest crust, your thickest goo, if only I can claw it all a while. If only I can throw it in a skillet and brown it slightly, chew it bit by bit and make the sound mmmmmmmmmm. I want to percolate organic remains, I want to contact the carrion in the woods and maybe lie with it a night or two and enwrap it in a maggoty frond pelerine and be implicated when the police arrive, not because I committed any crime but because our head orientation cuts us off from this; of course it would cause grave misease for me to sate this lodestone. Sate it I shall: I will build a platform to repeat the thrashings.