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The average Russian man consumes 4-5 bottles of vodka a week. Or so I’m told. The train journey from Moscow to Beijing was to take 14 days and so for 14 days I would be bathing in a bowl.
The earth is being murdered
And no-one seems to care.
I’ve lost patience with this hypocritical world.
The suffocating stench of plastic fumes.
The facade of quality and merit,
hiding the crude cheap and careless
attitudes of the makers.
We’re taught materialism at a young age.
Brought up to be consumers.
Nothing has value if it has not the intent of profit.
Everything is wrong. Nothing matters.
My skin is flaking off.
© Bea Pierce, 1998
The scent of prawn is not a subtle one. And neither, it would seem, is the art of eating them. For the avid prawn lover, the annual Nelson Bay Prawn Festival was a spectacle – and feast – not to be missed. For my father, it had become a religion.
A thousand pigeons rose from the earth,
fragmenting and staining the sky with grey.
And she was there.
Spinning and spinning, faster and faster.
Wild was her laughter as the knife which hung from her hand
dripped it’s death upon the land.
The wolf is dead: long live the wolf!
© Bea Pierce, 1997
He was sitting upon a pair of red lips when first she saw him.
So large and vibrant that they made him look, somehow,
although nothing could be further from the truth.
With gunshots ricocheting in her ears
she sashayed across the room toward him
and stopped. To stare.
So rude; and yet, so bewitching was the site, she stood transfixed.
For he had eyes of ice, red ice
that could pierce straight through your soul
and skin so pale, so translucent, that blue worms were visible
crawling just beneath the skin.
It was goulish… yet he was mesmerising.
Horrifying and yet wildly attractive.
She felt a burning desire to run her tongue around his lips.
Their eyes met; her heart beat wildly in it’s cage.
He rose, slowly stretched his wings and in an instant
© Bea Pierce, 1997