Paradox Poem by Mark R Slaughter

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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