Buried Alive

Pile on every dragged up
negative – ‘til that weight
slips – a slag heap shift of
cold indiscretions’ll crawl
before all – Shovel blame
& fault onto your mound
above your estate house
[not enough – not for one
who digs at an exhausted
seam] – A fat-arsed lass is
sat among packing boxes
as every feared-of tremor
tilts at hillsides above her
home [it will extirpate her
& she’ll be inhumed] – We
will till at that spoil tip – a
bruised body will emerge
in mining town tragedies
with soot across her face
[black personate in death
will not disguise misuse –
a gob pile waits for us all]