Pig People

A warning from childhood recounted as a poem.

Angry people with pig faces emerging from fog (AI-Generated).

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I remember the warning well.
I remember it warned of hell.
Beginning when the darkness fell
and lasting 'til the morning's swell...

I remember, at first, the face,
of my mother by the bookcase.
It was my childhood home, that place,
and I about four in that space.
It was my mother's face, at first,
until it morphed and warped. She cursed-
Gruesome at best, wicked at worst,
out from her nose a snout did burst.

My horrified scream was unhinged,
unknown compared to how I whinged
at the mundane miseries. Tinged
in blackened light, my dad infringed -
At first, his face bore the same fear
as mine, but as my mum drew near
to him, he cried out a hoarse sneer,
features shifting to match his dear.

I remember the warning well.
I remember it warned of hell.
Beginning when the darkness fell
and lasting 'til the morning's swell...

As I broke through the window pane,
acquiring an ankle sprain,
I grimaced my way through the pain
and forged onto the garden plain.
But out there - flanking either side -
swines of people came like a tide.
Snorting in some contorted pride,
they wanted me as their hog bride.

Hobbling at break-neck slug-speed,
tackling garden jungle-weed,
battling every thorny bleed,
I still could not escape their greed.
My hide was drenched and soaking wet,
yet they charged without breaking sweat.
A pack of pig-people, close-set,
grabbed and turned me into their pet-

I remember the warning well.
I remember it warned of hell.
Beginning when the darkness fell
and lasting 'til the morning's swell...

My muscles screamed in agony
as I startled from that slumber.
I clutched my face in a frenzy:
no pig-ears, no gnarly gnashers...
To the mirror! I must be sure!
Galloping at too slow a speed
for the anxiousness within me,
I caught my reflection, and me...
I am me! Thank God! I am me!
No horrid pig or boar to see!
Collapsing back in much relief
that I had no trotters, just feet.

But soon I learnt I was not free.
For when the time came to emerge
and meet the face of another,
something didn't sit right with me
in the people I encountered.
It was as if their features were...
twitching
                                            itching
flinching
                                    squinching
and then it all came back to me -

I remember the warning well.
I remember it warned of hell.
Beginning when the darkness fell
and lasting 'til the morning's swell...

And while I remained (only just!)
composed in my social duties,
inside me there stirred a writhing
and a reminder of that night.
When I look, their face is normal -
but at the same time piggish, too.
On in life I went, but on and
on and on I was entwined in
visions mashed up by monstrous swine.
Their greedy guzzling of wine,
and their gluttony for fodder.
In their Lord of the Flies-like rage
those warpigs flaunt their lust for hate.
The hogs who hog conformity
with dirty animal vices,
they conjure up boarish squealing,
cackling that I’m not yet free.

I knew then what I had to do.
I sniffed out a cottage far-out
from the pigsties of the city;
a truffle to ease my troubles.
I stuffed a case and went at once
to butcher this mind-beast alone.

I remember the warning well.
I remember it warned of hell.
Beginning when the darkness fell
and lasting 'til the morning's swell...

I hacked away at that nightmare,
tearing limbs of hair from my head,
each dice and slice did not suffice
and left meat that I could not eat.
Ruminating on its carcass,
I felt carved out, as if my gut
instinct had turned in to offal.
Had I not escaped? Was it all
just denial? A porky-pie?
Was my humanity a lie?
My greedy guzzling of wine
and my gluttony for fodder?
And my Lord of the Flies-like rage
like warpigs flaunting lust for hate?
Like hogs who hog conformity
with dirty animal vices,
conjuring up boarish squealing?
My muscles screamed in agony
as my mind was torn asunder.
I clutched my face in a frenzy:
Some pig-ears and gnarly gnashers...
To the mirror! I must be sure!
Galloping at too slow a speed
for the anxiousness within me,
I caught my reflection, and me -
It was my own face there at first,
until it morphed and warped, I cursed -
gruesome at best, wicked at worst,
out from my nose a snout did burst.
It got me! Dear God! It got me!
I am a horrid pig to see!
Collapsing back in disbelief
on the trotters that were my feet.

All this time I had held judgement
for those herds of sinners who meant
to point out what was unpleasant
in me holding that resentment.
Within that greed for a hatred
that violates life – the sacred - 
I’ll let that warning be wasted
should I continue frustrated.

And so, with a snivelling snort,
I let go the need for retort.
My roasting fury I cut short
And then, I could begin to sort
all that raging that I did hog.
As I forgave, within the bog
of my mind, I could then unclog
the fear that gripped me in its fog.

I remember the warning well.
I remember it warned of hell.
Beginning when the darkness fell
and lasting 'til the morning's swell.
And as I left my solitude
in the countryside’s interlude,
the fields had pigs and all their brood,
yet I felt only gratitude.

Pig People ~ A Poem by Tom Shaw

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Music: Apocalypse Choir - Lisa Hammer

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This poem is a highly personal one for me, and a send-off to a nightmare I had in my early childhood that has remained within me and in easy reach of my consciousness ever since it happened.

I can even name the exact date that it happened - 21st April 2007. It was the night that the Doctor Who episode “Daleks in Manhattan” aired; an episode where - surprise surprise - Daleks are turning people into half-pig slaves to help them accomplish their plans. Pretty horrific for the average person, but for a 6-year-old? Absolutely terrifying. So it’s perhaps no wonder I had the nightmare I did that night, that played out pretty much exactly as the poem describes it.

It was this scene from “Daleks of Manhattan” - the reveal of Laszlo’s transformation at the hands of the Daleks - that I remember stayed with me as I went to bed that night, providing fuel for the nightmare that would then unfold in my sleep.

Whereas so many other dreams and nightmares that I have had - even others that had significant emotional impacts on me at the time - this is one of the few that I remember in such vivid and stark detail. Having remained so pertinent and ingrained in my memory for all this time, it certainly felt like I was being called really sit with it and understand what little me was trying to make sense of with this piece.

Dream A Little Dream

Growing up, I was always someone who wanted to be more than just your average Joe - or perhaps, more than the mass of ‘pig people’ - and pushed myself academically as a route to achieve that. But being out of any crowd can be a lonely place, as I experienced time and time again. And I experienced it because I kept pushing myself away from their perceived vices and downfall. ‘Anything but that!’, so to speak, still subconsciously guided by the nightmare that, should I falter in any way, I too am destined to become a “pig person”.

Why Bother?

But ‘othering’ only services to make the division, the loneliness, and the trauma worse. If I am so keen to lambaste others for their flaws, it can only mean there is some deep-seated flaw in me that I am desperately trying to run from. And the more I do it, the more I know there’s an absolute pig sty of shit somewhere inside me. Mastery of the outer world only comes from mastery of the inner world.

Am I Something They Despise?

And that’s how this poem, “Pig People” was born.

Thank you all for taking the time to read and listen. Let me know in the comments if this sparked something for you.

With gratitude,

Tom

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