The moon bestowed the sweetest simper.
Withal around the world would whimper.
In the fairest eyes, though oceans deep,
The mocking beauty an oil spill keeps
If mountain forrowed fingers shake ,
May cause a fragile mind to quake
And spin. Though true the world should do,
With thoughts with plastic threaded through
WE ARE TRANSFORMING
MATERIALS BORN OF LIFE
INTO THINGS THAT CANNOT
SUSTAIN LIFE, CREATE LIFE
WE ARE TRANSFORMING
THE EARTH, INTO DEATH.
IT IS OBVIOUS, AT THIS POINT
THAT MAN, HATES LIFE.
"At least to all the other things living whom have thought, -like mammals."
Imagine that an alien race has come to Earth....
What would you, "fix," about it?
you can’t run away from me.
i’m the fate you can’t escape.
one day in a smaller city and you
forget that where you came from was like
a small town too.
small cities with big houses,
and rich folks with richer spouses–
is this the american dream?
because i never dreamed of this.
all the lights are dim here.
streetlights, table lamps, and stars.
they all are just bright enough to overthrow
darkness, but not bright
enough to give anyone hope.
but the houses are nice,
and everyone drives an energy efficient car,
and it’s all quite nice
if you look you don’t look
one day in a smaller city and you can’t
forget that you are small too.
Another space arrives. The newborn cries.
And the destiny determined:
Oven or matchstick.
Descendant of both; inheritor of another:
A machine that dreams itself into being,
Dragging its sleeping subjects after it.
Sustenance of nightmares, the food of what
God is, blood the earth pumps forth.
The plastic legacy is siphoned off,
Its artifacts cheap jewellery:
Enamel glinting white and turquoise.
Flimsy chains that never last,
And yet last forever, the paint flaking off.
So too does the rust on this delicate orchid.
It is an oracle of poisons.
The city burns in its incandescence.
The indelible halo
Of a lime-green candelabra
Makes light of midnight. Our slumber is
Punctured by gunshots and the drone of the
Not a foot but a juggernaut,
Sowing the seeds of your distress.
Fallout marks the potent epoch.
The neon octopus spews it back,
Invisible print on the murderous air.
Where water drinks
No diving bell can bear
The pressure of such fuchsia.
you're trying to focus on the image
but your eye only catches the dust
floating a foot in front of it
you're either focusing too hard
or not focusing at all
your eyes are broken camera lenses
and your brain is melting plastic
you can't function
and you're pieces are falling out
The immobile carcasses of plastic babies
litter my child's floor, never seeking there
birth mother as she was a statue of recycled
imagery. Of illegitimate children holding this
abortion of weaved construction that sings hollow
words of "mommy, mommy,
But they look within me, in cold eyes they stare in
to nothingness heeding the words of wanting
but their cries diminish to a silent lingering buzz.
Barely heard but I white noise succumbs to dreams
of a lonely child in stress, but recycled voice spoke.
I kicked the abortion of sickening similarity and
wonder back as the form of a child, baby, I have just
kicked. But still it weeps for a mother that is as
fake as the calls its synthetically calls upon a child.
Inanimate objects that stir in repetition, I will be long
gone when you will still whimper in a landfill,
calling in static, batteries last moments and you
still call out "mommy, mommy, no one answers your call.
Flames upon a plastic world
Take away what ugly truths lie beneath its skin
Unveiling what rotting minds forge
Upon the fragile births of a dreamworld
Far beyond the corruption and sin
Ground together so the greedy may gorge
No two flames are ever lit near
But on the rarest of days
The flames burns paths that cross
Igniting themselves to greater strengths
To eliminate what the greed filled world held dear
Showing old ways to untaught youth
To free their minds from frosts
And bring them, a more beautiful world.