Member-only story
Rare Earth
a poem
Everything is on the table
or under it,
the few biscuit crumbs I allow.
Those things of rarity
and value you
and your costumes crave,
are down the back
of the sofa — take a look,
cop a feel.
Let the silken drool descend.
This has nothing to do with
geopolitics — but I just happen
to know how big
your hunger is — all those arcane
elements with quirky names
sleeping in the dark soil
of your imagination,
just a rummage out of reach,
destined to be gobbled up
by the monstrous chat
to fuel your pablum revolution.
A little excavation is required
to get past the beige,
I’m afraid no X marks the spot
on the treasure map,
that would be too simple.
My poker face was put away
a while ago — that plaster grimace
uncovered only yesterday and
auctioned for a song.
