The hot desert seeps a strange glow onto fat bellied squawks and devil bird eggs.
As the vultures nestle and chunder their mulch into the faces of their young,
a dry, haggard bride cries and stumbles over rocky, hot desert ground.
Her face is a crumbled portrait of fear, dry-lust and hot perspiration,
giving her skin a chance to lose the heat and dissipate into the hot desert air,
the dry, hot dusky air, as she coughs and splutters her dry, dead sound.
She sings a lullaby quietly to herself, more onerous than tuneful,
morbidly melancholy and wordless, just gurgles,
her fat lullaby rides the still air and disturbs the fat bellied squawks of vultures and their eggs.
She spies an encampment, a fire built and flanked by shoddy tents and bracken.
A fat man sits tending the blaze, feeding it like a fat bellied vulture feeds it’s young,
the fat man looks up and spies her, focusing on her tits and her legs.
She is wearing next to nothing, and weaker than a mewling sap-drenched goat,
and she is tender and young, yet her rotten, chaotic eyes speak volumes of the sufferance she has in her,
and the man sees this and thus he sees more than a wretch, he sees a chance for release.
He summons the boys with a sharp whistle in A minor,
they slowly rouse, hoisting up their pantaloons as they exit their tents,
and the woman smiles for the first time in years at the attention she receives.
She fears for her life as the fat bellied vulture draws out a knife and points it at her face from afar,
he laughs and gobbles a fat chorus of hate in some indistinct dialect unknown to her,
but she’s heard few voices in years, for so long has she wandered.
She picks up a canteen and draws heavily on its acidic, alcoholic contents and,
reeling back from the sharp burn on her oesophagus, wipes her mouth and stifles some vomit.
She lies on the hot ground and spreads her lithe, pallid thighs and parts her soft vagina for the men to ponder.
As the sun sets they make frenzied, group love in the rapidly cooling desert air,
until the darkness envelops them and chills their naked writhing asses and they retreat to their tents.
When they wake their crotches are black as ash and she is gone.
The walk home was awkward, carrying their tents and supplies on legs parted by agonizing abscence,
They say very few words, except to offer or request water, until one speaks up; ‘What have we learnt
in this sorry display of lust and greed and depravity so wanton?’
‘Never fuck a walking corpse Jonathan, never fuck a walking corpse.’
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