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 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