By Jamie Finfer
Chattering laughter, dumb hills, cacti-trees,
Leaves now. Though cloudless nights freeze, they
Once taught speaker tawny-beard ‘look up!’
When sun would fill the glossy clay cups.
Now suited mummies crown a quarter-winner,
Yawn to plastic trays, yawn through corporate dinners,
Foreign cars are ridden wild, panting sweaty hips,
Pants stuck to seats of nomads with hairless lips.
Carrion wheel above, blinking red, blinking blue
They chomp the bits – Hittites run from God’s crew.
Ozy lays on the ground, shattered, noise from the fair.
Don’t look, you’ll catch tristitia! Don’t want more despair.
Barren is the desert of the underpass, ‘cept for
The muggers (lucky buggers) who last week tore
The ruach out a young girl, near fourteen,
Who chased viziers, wrote cankered reams
Of script to shiver thirst away, waiting for
Mitzvahs to start. Now she’s lost her heart.
Good thing that railing or we’d all top in,
‘How dreadful the sound!’ Screams echo thin.
No oasis. For drudgers up the A45,
It’s not the 90’s no more. Keep looking alive.
Keep writing your memoirs. Keep keeping the books.
Nobody cares. Nobody looks.
Forgetting about us, aren’t you? Don’t write, Larko’s ambulance shuts its doors.
No manna for us, the Cohens forgot. They’ve changed their names by now
Anyway. We get painted murals (how gay!). We get HDLs and HGVs. We beget.
And you can sit in the simmered morning light sobbing next to your uncaring spouse
Whose love has been sucked out by the dockside Charybdis. Grains of light
Will still pour from fissures in the sky. Not black, not white, no sun.
Mapless, mapless. This sand bears not our marks.
Image: David Mark via Pixabay