come at me, dunes and harsh air,
grant that escape from pale grey skies
from that lingering stench
of that rotting corpse
of that dainty aristocracy
of that money young and old,
and that fetid memory
of now despoiled coasts of coke cans/coke bags/needles/polyurethane —
as that vast clean sand has no space for their sickly,
inbred progeny, wan and entitled,
who stand to inherit humanity,
as soon as it finally dies,
it’s in the will,
but they won’t follow me and my shallow footsteps into
the harsh blue