A flat tarmac wonder slot

We bulldozed over your grandfather's grave
To build a parking lot.

A flat tarmac wonder slot
With delicate stones layered on top
White lines neatly drawn
As if it were
An immaculate garden.

I have no sympathy
For the dried up bones
Of some old forgotten lone
Occupying useless space
When there are parking lots to be built
Beautiful, elegant concrete stalls
With the flesh of workers
Mixed into this modern art
Delicious, new age minimal art.

Pristine white lines
The fluorescent paint
As if carved in to the stone
Edges as sharp
As the rot on his bones
Each crucible
Occupied by a mechanical miracle.

I push the red button
A ticket to wonderland
I enter and gasp.

The flatness excites me
I trudge in my cheap machine
Into a white-lined slot.

I step out
Lie down
Strewn over it's surface
And scour my flesh.

I rub in my hands
Into the rough cracks
Till my nails are filled with tar
I scratch it desperately
Ready to feel some satisfaction
I come away empty
I claw, again and again
I smash in my teeth
They crack and shatter.

My hands melt, my flesh diffuses
Under this hot, desert sun
Right into the beautiful layers of bitumen
The dark cracks hungrily
Lap up my bones.

Here I lie
Buried
Under the same bulldozed graveyard.

I turn sideways
Your grandfather smiles serenely
And we both finally look up in peace
Obseve the cars roll over our pale faces
The black tarmac now transparent
Yet the people above
Unaware of the dead faces below.