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I am a Martian.
Green, eyes on stalks,
Publishers tell me,
There's no market
For Martian authors.
They must be right.
We're not in the bookshops,
I read a publisher's mind.
Sacred site. Euthanasia.
Steamy sand, shifting sex, golden sunsets,
Dispossession, dehydration, despair.
I know this story,
It sells millions, critically acclaimed.
"... unparallelled insight into the human mind."
A mini-series is planned.
I am exposed.
I write about entwining silicates
Under the searing Venusian sun,
Enthralling another world
For a little while.
Copyright © D.W. Walker, 1997
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