Mia Hart-Allison


No Accounting for Waste


The landfill site gapes capaciously,

indecent exposure defiling the hillside,

containing the same utter nullity as death

like the noose around a suicide’s neck.

Everything here is deemed to be

as useless as a nun’s fecundity.


The cruel, complex stench summons distant insects

to gorge themselves giddy on society’s leavings.

Here, where nothing’s too good to throw away,

the shifting dunes of refuse mount up like excuses.


The on-site incinerator’s smoke is a furtive nocturnal emission,

the noxious fumes released only at night when darkness

is kind to such secrets, but can’t prevent the fouling

of the unsuspecting clouds, that quickly grow soiled

and stale as creased sheets the morning after.


From the chimney’s rigid middle digit

the pollution taints the rain that fosters

the site’s consumptive decay. And when

the rare sun stings glints from ragged metal shards,

fool’s gold gleams deceitfully, seething meaninglessly.


This place of negation is as pernicious

as a bloated, monstrous foetus, growing out of control.

Harsh as perfection, it has the tenacity of cancer,

and is expansive enough to block a black-hole’s throat –

indelible proof that there’s no accounting for waste.


The blighted life that results from rubbish’s abundance

is saturated with latent rage and pain.

Even recycling’s lie multiplies the flies

and amongst the dirty sepia debris

acid-green weeds flicker like an antique film reel.


This mass grave for the remains of the living

is a tomb for the consumed,

the final resting place of the used.

It lies along the horizon like the corpse of a murdered giant –

both a vista of the perpetual past

and a preview of Armageddon’s aftermath.



Mia Hart-Allison © 2010