Treasure Island

Mark R Slaughter


Paradox


A seething forest borne of kwashiorkor:
Ever-bulging beacons of the famine, calling out,
Calling out across the empty space,

Calling out.

Their brown eyes can't focus -
Burnt horizons blurred,
So what's the difference?
Their eyes again -
Portals to an abyss.

Dryness of bone-stretched skin,
Like a cratered moonscape,
Parches the mind.
Everything is cinder-covered,
Baking darker, as the UV rays team
From an indifferent sun
Conniving with
Precocious drifts of dead ground.

Do they think of Gaia? -
Or even God?

Yet other bulging bellies
- Belt-bursting, blubber-laden -
Hung heavy under mocking pull of gravity.
And overhead - sagging ever further -
Mushy tit sacks poised to jump their bras.
Faces glare with lipstick and eyelash promenades,
While drunken smirks
Further paint the fool.

They're off to binge-brink.

Later, pasty dials puke soup of alcohol and
Grin peculiarities.
Night fades; burger van queues puff at fags
And spatter out ‘f*cks' and ‘innits'.

Do they think of God
Or Gaia?

Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2011










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Rain God

god god god god god god god god god god god god
god god god god god god god god god god god god
god god god god god god god god god god god god
god god god god god god god god god god god god
god god god god god god god god god god god god
god god god god god god god god god god god god
god god god god god god god god god god god god
god god god god god god god god god god god god
god god god god god god god god god god god god
god god god god god god god god god god god god

Submitted: Thursday, January 13, 2011
Edited: Wednesday, March 21, 2012

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