SKINNY

Skinny wafer

Paper dry

And Sunken.

Shiny, stretched

Animal skin.

Drum like,

Waxy.

Concave shadows,

Bones and angles

My breath whistles

Through

My depleted body;

A tumbleweed

In a ghost town.

What embodies me now

If not flesh or blood?

Everything is retreating,

Shutting down.

My mirror image

Laughs cadaverous,

Unconcerned,

As I hollow out.

Cavernous holes form

On the landscape of my pelvis.

The hills of my breasts retreat

And retreat again,

Much to my delight.

Is there a space for my spirit?

A receptacle for my essence?

Will my personality step out for a minute

To buy some milk and cigarettes

And not return?

Perhaps leaving me

Desert like devoid

Voided and depleted.

My ovaries are tiny nuggets

Fossils showing the life they

Could once supply.

I hold that golden key,

But here on in

I am Mussolini.

Nothing alights my tongue

Unless I give permission

And I don’t give permission.

Is my smile hideous

And crazed?

A laughing skull?

I am at one with this.

Good better best,

Never let it rest,

Until your good is better,

And your better

Is best.

PANDORA'S BOX

The end of the world

Will not be fast

No explosions

No kind, quick finish.

Biblical and spectacular.

Look out the window

Of your climate-controlled

House.

And witness it now

As the birds sing

The sun shines

And pop music plays on the radio

An apocalypse is happening

With every straw found

In the gullet of an aquatic bird,

With every metre of greying coral

With every striking off the list of

Another extinct species.

A rheumy bloom is spilling

Edging forward and encroaching

The planet looks sick

A vulnerable

Preciousness, pleading

And we pull down the shutters

Don the Aviators

Put our hands over our ears and sing

La la la la la

And enjoy the mild weather.

It’s easy to ignore.

Listen little human

Who has inherited the world,

You are entitled to nothing

This gift of our evolution

Has rendered us maniacs

Killing, marauding, pillaging

Taking.

When we have come to our senses

Too late,

And the leavings of the party are strewn

We maniacs will expect the Earth to

Open her arms to the prodigal son

Allow us to prostrate ourselves

Demand forgiveness

Bandage gashes

Sing a lullaby.

Too late.

I fear,

Too late.

Will we be orbiting flotsam

Universal waste

Washed up,

Guilty?

I pray there is time.

But I’m frightened

That there isn’t.

I look down

At my perfect five year old

And look for the answer.

And know there is always

Hope at the bottom of

Pandora’s Box.