The Aporia Wastes

A Poem

The Aporia Wastes 

The thick sick perverted desert filth
Wander yonder twisting up the crags,
Hauling sacks and rags, twine and tissue
Southward, duneward, tightening a noxious grip,
This profligate cult of bone stomping cross the sands,
Flagellate—Propagate—Annihilate—Mutate.

And the thunder rolled.

Halfway between the slouching pines
And the coaxing dim grave
I heard the deathmaiden whisper,
“Just a penny for a poor-man,
Spare a coin for a beggar.”

And the thunder rolled.

Down the alley, flanked by headshops and girlie-mags,
Where the slime sucked my bootlace,
I tendered the colloidal transaction,
Sold it all like a prodigal son.

And the thunder rolled.

And I cut from my flesh the cost of my life,
She grinned the evil grin and smiled upon my wound,
With lips of pestilence and a serpent’s bite:
“Just a bit more, baby.”

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