"landfill" poems
A long, long time ago, I can still remember when,
Junk food made me smile,
And I knew if had my chance,
That I could make my fatness dance,
And maybe I was happy for a while.
But McDonald's made me shiver,
With every burger they'd deliver,
Bad news on their doorstep,
I couldn't take one more step.
I can't remember if I cried,
When I passed size twenty-five,
But something touched me deep inside,
The day I knocked back obesity fries,
CHORUS.
So, bye, bye McDonald's French fries,
Drove my chevy away from McDonald's,
didn't have a bevy,
I said goodbye to whiskey and rye,
Singing no more apple pies,
That's the end of obesity fries.....
Did you go to McDonald's biomes?
Did you know you're changing your genomes?
Eating all those pesticides?
Now do believe they love you, guys?
Might as well eat dead flies!
And can you change evolution in real time?
Well, I know you're addicted to them,
You'll need more than treadmills in the gym,
Now can't even put on your shoes,
Man, you'll dig the obesity blues,
CHORUS.
I was an obese teenage bronco buck.
Driving to McDonald's in a pickup truck,
But I knew I was out of luck,
The day I ate landfill in those French fries...
I started singing bye, bye obesity fries,
Drove my chevy, had no bevies,
And the burgers were dry,
This is the day I knock back French fries.
CHORUS.
I met a girl who sang the blues,
She'd passed turning size twenty-two,
I asked her if she ate junk food too,
She just smiled and drove away,
I drove down to the store no more,
Where I ate additives years before,
But the junk food store didn't care anyway...
CHORUS
CHORUS....
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 4:56 PM UTC
I was deep in lucid sleep.
You fed me food doctor told me not to eat.
I didn't question,
but your motives to myself.
A landfill of poison,
and you mean it all for me.
Each rose another thorn,
each bite another death.
I was deep in lucid sleep.
My innocence I must keep,
is led astray for just on night.
Here I, to live, must fight.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 5:19 PM UTC
Epilogue:
The relentless tick of time
Changes things forever.
Stand on a piece of common ground
Look around and remember
Saturday afternoon outdoor charades
The local bring-and-swipe carnival-theft parade!
a spectacle event for all the family to enjoy.
“Come round for your tea” is how it often started:
Then sometime after you leave
The wee cousin Billy
does a quick shimmy
up a 200 foot drainpipe
In through the window, out through your front door
Shortly that fancy new recliner you’ve been bragging about
wont be there any more.
Not unlike tribes of indigenous peoples
they never took more than they could carry
and appreciated the karma of their actions on the jungle.
It would happen to them next week anyway
Till then at least, they had ownership of new leather recliner
People change shape and move places
Old is replaced with the new
Angry youths become middle-aged men with jobs,
carrying children with smiles on their faces
The big blocks were eventually torn down one by one
Nearly all that I remember is gone.
The wall tiles etched with a secret love
Have no place any more
Just junk messages littering another landfill
I spare a thought for the lovers
Did they ever get it on?
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 10:36 AM UTC
(a satirical pop at the Illuminati)
It's time to slay fatted consumer cows
It's time to fumigate the Great Unwashed;
To sow mutation's seeds behind the ploughs
To see the dullard's dreams forever quashed.
How movingly they pray not to be harmed!
How doggedly they work to make a wage!
How prettily they line up to be farmed,
Yet, how they long to be at centre stage!
The Useless Eaters eat their pizzas deep,
Their double fries and creamy mayonnaise;
Produce only some methane while asleep,
And fodder for landfill, throughout their days.
It's time for the superiors to win;
Unleash the virus, let the cull begin.
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 10:15 PM UTC
A heart that's filled up like a landfill
A job that slowly kills you
Bruises that won't heal
You look so tired, unhappy
Bring down the government
They don't, they don't speak for us
I'll take the quiet life, a handshake of carbon monoxide
No alarms, and no surprises
No alarms, and no surprises
Silent
Silent
-Radiohead
Jun 2, 2012
Jun 2, 2012 at 9:06 PM UTC
If you were reincarnated as an animal
Knowing everything you do now
Would you treat humans differently than animals already do?
Or would you bite the hand that beats?
Or would you bite the mouth that eats?
Would you treat humans kindly?
That could be a bullet finding
I come across a shivering raccoon
Stuck inside a winter monsoon
It's too young to survive
I could help I surmise
Its coat can't protect its form
In my car it's nice and warm
But I don't understand the raccoon
And I fear it doesn't understand me
Though I'm not proud of it
I travelled around it
Mosquitoes want your blood to survive
The same way I want your love to arrive
There's a pestering orbit
Your teeth grind and grit
I feel the need to feed
I am overcome by greed
I want you inside me
So I insert my proboscis
And you turn into colossus
It's an animal process
When you squash us
So animals grow stingers
And poison that lingers
When we use our fingers
To smash them
And detach them
From our humanistic existence
They have a reproductive resistance
So we keep fighting
And they keep biting
Because there's no end in sight
When we see animals take flight
We define anything different as animal
This is our excuse to act tyrannical
They feel our wrath
When they're in our path
We turn them into roadkill
This world becomes a landfill
Our hollowed humanity on the shelf
We treat animals as we treat ourself
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 3:14 PM UTC
the grass, leaning in the south wind , seeming
as if emeralds, had sent tendrils up
to suckle at the yellow breast, now, high above inflamed....
over soft new
grass
like
strands of green gemstone,
as delicate as humming-bird tongues
teasing nectar
from a titan,
in the sky
triumphant in the void,
a golden bead in the baffling blue !
cattails, curling in sway...and two brown eyes bob upon the surface
of a myriad fertilities.
as if
nature itself had known, one day
a poet would come ~
to roam the rambling renascence of these remote ramparts
in awesome humility ~ and so prepared
a path afflux
that ambled near
and yes !
an
anonymous nomad
with nicotine skin and a scabbard of scandalous quills
would indeed
stumble in as if returning home
to a mansion restored to glory
and seraphic randomness....
a place
that in youth, sustained a quiet, soulful troubadour
by gospels of granite and grain, grass finch
and faun - ennobling an oracle ... but now
enticed a scholar from his cot
to jot ephemera
of outlasting spark
before dark-fall
and so... there
amid all allurement and soft machines
a word-smith gathered
poesy and prose.
muse-driven
this one served
an invisible
sovereign
one
of unsurpassed virility
who charms kaleidoscopes
with offhand sketches
rescued
from
a landfill
a basket weaver,
that unravels to
achieve pure
forms
a wineskin was decanted in dianthus and hollies -
as ampules of anagrams
were sold unscrambled, to dyslexics
without hope
a falcon frolicked above the lowborn lilies...
with eyes
too keen
to see a
blur
as the hand
of god
or a vole
as a lifeline
on his
palm.
Sep 8, 2012
Sep 8, 2012 at 6:15 PM UTC
Patterned dots, existence connects
An anther to a stigma, reproduction
The pollen withers, pollution subsides
Colonies of bees vanish in the wind
Toxic genetic food wins in binge
Mother earth cries in pain, an ail
Food chains and supplies cut short
Globalised mass production of poison
Supermarkets stocking “all season”
Consumerism monopolies swell
The environment abused and misused
Plastic bottles displaced, a chemical sludge
The haunted “great pacific garbage patch”
Littered garbage, debris and chemical sludge
Humanity displaced, dissociated and divided
Ruining sea waters , floating landfill fueled
Probability of heightened population
Global panics, mimicked maniacs
Reductions of resources to feed all
Unsustainable long windy farms
Big roads, buried bills, stingy reality
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 6:43 PM UTC
from a distance, I thought
you might be a wolf
straying from the high country,
confused by the cacophony of scents,
but no,
‘twas my vapid vision, you were
only a mongrel, perched high on the mound
the odors of suburban fast food ghosts
and tuna tins familiar to you
you stood atop the reeking remnants
your right front paw resting on
the shredded files of a grand embezzler
your left rear on the ear of a headless teddy bear
another on an orange rind until you shifted your weight
and found footing on a crinkled crushed water bottle
one of about…33,448,899 in the heap, or maybe
33,448,900
and the last on the ubiquitous cell phone
that heard its final voice a fortnight before,
when its master spoke his last light words
before he tossed it into a dark dumpster
and replaced it with another plastic confessor
whose fate would ultimately be the same
after some sublime texting and sexting
and a few vain words
to other deaf dogs
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 4:33 PM UTC
Little Box talks back
With a new set of teeth
And pink gums
A fake nose and a wax mustache
She disguises her voice
To sound like Groucho
•
Little Box opens up
And cries to her psychiatrist
I don’t know why they hate me
I’m such a sweetheart
I volunteer at the zoo
And teach Mandarin
To their bratty children
•
Little Box is not happy to see you
So she closes herself up for months
Years, decades, and two millennia!
She tacks up a sign that says
Nirvana
•
Little Box is undead
She sleeps all day in a coffin
Hands over chest
At night she cruises the mall
For juicy victims
She prefers type A
But AB if she has to
What can you say
Vampires can’t be choosy
She likes your stupid brother
•
Little Box is on the psychiatry couch
Everybody hates me
Nobody loves me
Little Box lies on her side
And spills her guts
•
What’s in Little Box
A perfect orchid
A chocolate-covered strawberry
A new iPhone
With a glittery sleeve
Amber earrings from Pushkin
Keys to a new Porsche
A retro Chanel brooch
A Getty scion’s left ear
A Czar’s *****
Gifts so rare
Please don’t stare
•
What’s in Little Box
Rancid chow mein
A sliver of cold pizza
Last week’s hummus
You’re a starving orphan
From East Brooklyn
And you’ll eat it
•
So you want to **** Little Box
You want to know her secret
She won’t open up
She won’t give it up
And you are genuinely repelled
By her filthy ribbon
•
You want to DO the Little Box
You are a sorry story
You big creep
Why don’t you get off the couch and find
A real girlfriend!
•
Boss Box
White, square, and without a soul!
•
Please don’t analyze Little Box
She’s just cardboard clogging the landfill
Her mother Precious Jade Purse
Has been regifted
Jul 29, 2016
Jul 29, 2016 at 1:58 AM UTC
you cry like lost toys and dead pets
there's nothing you can do about it right now
you cry like a small animal with a broken spinal chord
you keep whimpering, but it can only heal in time
you cry like pressing the skin of your palms
into the membranes of your eyes
when everything in your head is so cacophonous
you want to rub away all the little things you absorb
want that your hands could throw out this migraine
like a candy wrapper on the sidewalk
and if you believe hard enough that it's gone
you'll never notice the sugar rush or the comedown
so you press your hands to your face
as hard as you can and try to pray like a religious person
but you were raised christian and american and
the ways of believing and hoping and loving that you knew as a child
seem insincere now, and hard to speak
the language is not truthful
everything is what they told you it was not
nothing is what they told you it was
or everything was always what it was
and you or i could've told them that
and you think that wrapper might eventually end up in a landfill
if you go throwing it carelessly around
and sadness taken with too much sugar can be a toxic combination
so maybe making the bad things go away
is harder than throwing away the wrapper and enjoying the rush
maybe the wrapper is somewhere else now you can't get to
where you can't hear it crinkle or see it shrivel,
but you can still relentlessly feel it
getting whittled away by time and weather
while steadily melting down bits of you
as you pass your heart around
gasping inside the icebox
until one day you look up and the sun is a bloodier color
and your lungs are full of ice like pins
freezing inside of you
and when seconds before you had oxygen
as you begin choking, you think it's amazing how long
it seems to have been
since you were alive
your knuckles are dry from holding on
to a rusty ladder wrung
even when you want to move so badly
and there's nowhere to climb
you refuse to jump
and you're still trying to figure out
how to fall correctly
to break the least amount of limbs
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 6:45 PM UTC
the grass, leaning in the south wind , seeming
as if emeralds, had sent tendrils up
to suckle at the yellow breast, now, high above inflamed....
over soft new
grass
like
strands of green gemstone,
as delicate as humming-bird tongues
teasing nectar
from a titan,
in the sky
triumphant in the void,
a golden bead in the baffling blue !
cattails, curling in sway...and two brown eyes bob upon the surface
of a myriad fertilities.
as if
nature itself had known, one day
a poet would come ~
to roam the rambling renascence of these remote ramparts
in awesome humility ~ and so prepared
a path afflux
that ambled near
and yes !
an
anonymous nomad
with nicotine skin and a scabbard of scandalous quills
would indeed
stumble in as if returning home
to a mansion restored to glory
and seraphic randomness....
a place
that in youth, sustained a quiet, soulful troubadour
by gospels of granite and grain, grass finch
and faun - ennobling an oracle ... but now
enticed a scholar from his cot
to jot ephemera
of outlasting spark
before darkfall
and so... there
amid all allurement and soft machines
a word-smith gathered
poesy and prose.
muse-driven
this one served
an invisible
sovereign
one
of unsurpassed virility
who charms kaleidoscopes
with offhand sketches
rescued
from
a landfill
a basket weaver,
that unravels to
achieve pure
forms
a wineskin was decanted in dianthus and hollies -
as ampules of anagrams
were sold unscrambled, to dyslexics
without hope
a falcon frolicked above the lowborn lilies...
with eyes
too keen
to see a
blur
as the hand
of god
or a vole
as a lifeline
on his
palm.
Sep 27, 2011
Sep 27, 2011 at 5:51 PM UTC
this
sweet-eyed
breathtaking
catastrophe
of mine
hoarding
clutter to the
ceiling fan,
filling void
somewhat
while
trying to
understand
how involuntarily
she crumples
like paper
littered
on the sidewalk
of my brain,
riddled with
scribbles
and nonsense
words,
her ink
blotted
voice like
feathers
under pressure
being
pressed against
whatever
white knuckles
her neck
and
hot talk
from
cold chests.
ingenious
security
boarded up doors
and
one-way glass
windows
to
watch
from inside.
for a moment
she calls
out to me from the
woodwork.
she almost
reaches
for the lock,
she almost becomes more than just paper
Sep 3, 2017
Sep 3, 2017 at 12:17 AM UTC
The moon is a disco-ball upon black waters
The sun is a lava-lamp upon our pale backs
Planets are mines for department store jewelry
Hearts are black-lights for otherworldly knick-knacks
Truth is an onion; it peels and makes you weep
Earth is a landfill where bones and secrets sleep
Nov 28, 2011
Nov 28, 2011 at 5:48 PM UTC
My love is the shape of canine teeth and claw marks
I leave around your neck,
the way I leave poems decaying in an unforgiving landfill —
the gods have turned away in disgust
as I sit and lick, like a rabid dog,
the maggots chipping away from the inside —
the entrails of my grief, all pulled out without mercy,
without a deathbed confession,
without a god to listen.
I long for something else to unfold;
something sacred and beautiful
when you turn my body inside out, but lo.
This is as deep and far as we go.
Tell me, I beseech, does my filth look better inside out,
uncovered, on display,
penetrating your very skin?
Take what you need, love, they are all yours —
my sins, my wounds, my impiety
in exchange for your darkened heart — I’ll spit it out
and swallow it back
down to my underbelly where no one can ever take it —
not you, not the gods, not their fallen, forsaken angels.
Forgive me — forgive me, forgive me, forgive me.
Forgive my unforgiving hands, forgive my unforgiving poems
if our sick, twisted, defilement is all they ever know.
Dec 13, 2022
Dec 13, 2022 at 9:41 PM UTC
A disruption in a peaceful world, everyday I’m
At war and battling against myself.
Clouds overcast my mind. Ugh, god,
dad, I’m so sorry I’m like this.
Edge is near, I think I’m losing my balance. I
feel like I’m alone in this world.
Guilt consumes my mind. I don’t know
How to not feel like this.
Innocence has disappeared, this is a
jigsaw puzzle I simply can’t solve.
Keep me close, keep me alive.
Landfill of thoughts piling up in my mind.
Missing a piece to the puzzle of life.
No one understands why I’m like this, not even me.
Once I wasn’t this crazy,
Please don’t leave me here alone.
Quick, I feel myself falling apart.
Raging war in my mind, when will it end?
Still searching for the piece that completes the puzzle.
Tick, tick...time's running out.
Underneath this craziness is a person needing to be loved.
Visions of something better, it wasn’t supposed to be like this. It’s
warmth I crave, I need a hand to hold. Looking at an
X-ray of this broken thing that can never be put back together.
Yes, I’m still here. My sanity may not be but I am.
Zigzagging.
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 2:36 PM UTC
From the visions of sparrow vanguards
that fly insatiably onward.
From the tombs of ancient hearts draped
in flowing, moth-eaten fabric.
From the fighter jets stalling somewhere
above solitary and succinct farmlands.
From the bottom of a broken purple
sunset that lies embossed on my brain.
From the silliest half-thought left
unvoiced in the vagrant light of a damp
and desolate lamp lying in a landfill.
From several mouths at once.
From oracles cross-legged in caves.
From the gills of a catfish on a hook.
From mythical forgeries and the perjurer's tongue.
To the subdued hope resting in a
trembling hand gripped round its pen.
To satisfaction that is oneness that
seems to never arrive but is there
all along.
To the peaks of the Himalayas.
To my spidered desk light, shallow with doubt.
To my flustered and torrential page.
Aug 30, 2012
Aug 30, 2012 at 9:39 PM UTC
I am an earthquake
In the desert
Working the rough sand to settle
In my belly
So that the ache in the pit of my gut
Might lose its shape
These shoulder blades feel like wings sometimes
Too bad these hands are prehensile
Not feathered or webbed
Just full of chemo-quake
And tremble
Unless I can hold your hand
Hold my hand
I’ll reverberate your ***** soul to settle
Till we’ve shaken the dust a firmament
Big enough to stand on
I need redemption enough
That stuck in the filter of my cleansing
Is enough dirt to build a hill to stand on
Forget heaven
When I can stand on the land of my past mistakes
And revel in the beauty I left behind
Don’t get left behind
And don’t go to heaven
Just stay with me in the middle
Where I have managed to compact this broken to solid
Like a ghost in a landfill
Haunt these hollow halls of filth with me
Until ***** is all that’s left
***** is all that is left
I understand that you might want to bathe sometimes
Not everyone can live like I do
Not everyone shares my infatuation
With broken things like I do
Let me get you just a little *****
Let me break you too
Let me recycle our fuckery
Till the filaments fit
I am a “found” artist
Making the broken beautiful
What everyone keeps forgetting
Is that even we are recyclable
And there isn’t anything that cannot be rebuilt
So let me make a new heaven
So that I can be like a ghost
Haunting a landfill
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011 at 4:59 PM UTC
I don’t know what to buy nothing seems to
be enough for me
I think about all it took to get to that shelf in
the supermarket; all it took for them to place
that can of soda on a shelf
And then I thought to myself that the same
applies with everyone and everything
How is the twinkle in your left eyeball (the
one I’d stare at as you’d fall asleep to the
sound of my stories, the ones you didn’t
like) any different from the can of sardines at
your local supermarket
I propose that we are all products in an
increasingly capitalistic market
No one wants you in the end
You end up in someone’s cart for twenty
minutes
You take a ride; whilst suffocating in a
plastic bag
You are used and eaten and beaten
You are merely an item
And then you’re over
And then you are to be thrown away
Brought to a landfill
Buried
And finally you are to be forgotten
And the worst part is, that you thought that
you were special
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 7:31 AM UTC
If bedbugs become pets~ is there a possibility~someone is spending to much time in the sack~and not stepping out into what the Real World~ "Offers Up"~even tho the Bedbugs seem more friendly..... If you Cry over White onions~why cry over the Red one ? ? Turkeys Trot to a dance taught by man~Pretending to be foxes~always close to the tail . A Truly honest man~Would~Not be believed~if it weren't for the Falsehoods that Truly exist ! ! Staples when firmly pressed~Usually hold things together~SO___What makes these staples unworthy of being served up at dinner ? Ever think about yard sticks? ~ and How Come your neighbors don't have any sticking up~ and your the only one that meets the measure. . . POE only hinted at the torment of Modern man~Stories in Stupors don't find the center of the heart~ Unless they are really experienced . . It's sorta like being poured into a Landfill~But like a Good Cork~You can't seem to sink all the way~Your head just bobbing above~and continually being that ready target~as additional waste'PILES AROUND ! ! It's like walking into a familiar room~But as you turn on the light switch~you discover~that you are now the "Stranger"~in a strange place. . Life is like a Trampoline~casting ones thoughts up and down for review~NOT considering that some may be actually measuring the values presented. . *The *Broken heart of a man'who loves the woman who opened that door~ May Never be receptive to repair~NOT ENOUGH PARTS LEFT ! ! As the Lights "Come-On"~ it's like being at the Helm of the 'TITANIC" ~ assured that all others are off safely~__AND~ the Shaking of Life Begins .......
Aug 7, 2012
Aug 7, 2012 at 4:43 PM UTC
Yeah, I know all about your people
How they worship drunken image
How they've exalted you to the status
Of a hero, a legend
A mythological god
Bacchus best buddy
You keep good company
but swine follow you
Different as day and night
Yet they all clamor for a good seat
They fight and swing fists
For a place in the front row
For the chance that a stream of gin-soaked spittle might splat on one of their faces
a soothing balm
a gob of stench and sputum
They gather it up
They mix it with mud
Thicken it into gel
and bow down to a snot green idol
a pus dripping idol
They'll worship it at the foot of the mountain
The towering landfill where you've brought them
Or they'll bring it to your ceremonies
They wave your banner in the air
A colorful representation of the Beefeater
Proud of their devotion
Proud of their status as "The Chosen"
Not necessarily
Sure
Of the WHYS or the WHEREFORES
You just seemed to be worth the trouble
Worth a laugh to watch you
To see you falling down
To hear your words of wisdom
(True wise words they are, too)
Slurred into gibberish
You are their man
Whose oracles remain silent
Lost in a deep dream that swirls through your sleep-dizzy mind
Whose glory and honor
Fall down
From your pulpit
In the center of a room full of people
99% of whom see YOU
Not as a profit
Not as a beatnik
Not as a poet
Not as a sage
Not as a seeker
Not as an asgst ridden agnostic
No idol
No god
99% know exactly
What you are
Sep 14, 2010
Sep 14, 2010 at 6:55 AM UTC
I'm filling up
like a landfill
my heart is starting to feel
like an anvil
And I'm starting to think that maybe,
Maybe this world's not meant for me
or me for it
or us for each other like in a
"mutual" break up
which is an idiom,
because love is never quite
symmetrical.
See, love is like a heart drawn by a
fifth grader.
It's never quite the same
on either side
and if you ever told them they were wrong
for drawing it that way
you lied.
Because that:
lop sided
sloppy
hunched over heart,
that:
innocent
delicate
Beautiful heart,
Is exactly what love is.
When we're older,
we learn to draw straighter lines
to hide our shaking hands.
Don't let them know you're nervous.
We learn to whisper what we don't want heard,
To make silent our thoughts,
in public.
Fights were meant for closed doors and walls
that are never quite thick enough
to keep words that hard, from breaking them down.
Even the fights,
that you fought against someone
who looks much too like you.
When, then, can I open my mind like a book
for only them to read.
When can I open my chest like a puzzle box
for them to put together.
When can I apologize for having before,
what I only ever wanted with them?
I just didnt know it yet.
I am a fifth graders heart
that beats five times heavier
than healthy.
Being colored in
with too deep a red.
I'm filling up
like a landfill.
My heart has reached a
stand still.
And I'm starting to think that maybe,
Maybe a square peg can find comfort
in a round hole.
Apr 2, 2013
Apr 2, 2013 at 2:24 AM UTC
Spinning
until I get dizzy
around my cubicle.
What a view.
10% me
90% what I never thought I would be
"The current webpage is trying to open a site in
your trusted sites list."
I don't trust anyone.
So,
let's extend that pleasure to this site.
I blur all the gossip.
Catch a glimpse of the Spiderman Timmy found in the landfill.
After everytime I use it I squirt some hand sanitizer.
The wall to my right
now left
is full of
certificates,
showing how important I can be.
There goes my Sierra Club calendar.
My slice of the outside environment.
This month is a river bed,
frozen,
choked with multicolored leaves.
Smooth water pushing through
smooth rocks.
Reminding me
that I give a presentation two Wednesdays from now.
The one constant
is the over-abundance
of files...
All over.
Reminding me
that I had a deadline
and
that I shouldn't be writing poetry...
I think it's time for a walk.
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 3:12 PM UTC
~
*No longer hyperbole
No longer making time
As children of the technological sea
Landfill up their dreams
Pour them like liquid
Pluck them like chickens
Aquarium their little minds:
Tell them they're lucky starfish
Better off without daylight
Able to live underwater
As offspring of nobody
No longer making memories
No longer exaggeratory*
~
Jul 5, 2021
Jul 5, 2021 at 11:32 AM UTC
Along the brittle sandy shoreline fish carcasses, pungent like morning breath and stale milk attract unlikely furry hunters before noon. These unleashed dogs trot slowly. The burden of the sun cracks feverishly upon their sticky, rotted coats. Their tongues roll out helplessly dragging their intimidation down with them like foolish clowns on Sunday morning. On the upper crest of the beach an old woman sits dutifully in her black latched beach chair. Her eyes, beady and gray reflect out into the vast lake. She does not blink. Her cottage, crafted purely of cedar wood comforts like the smell of an old book. On rare occasions athletic fresh water fish pierce through the water’s surface. Flying fish echo their rippled splashes throughout this vacant canvas. But still they are rarely seen or heard. There are hardly any tourists that visit cedar bay. No oiled teenage girls or playful sand kneed toddlers. Once in a while a charcoaled pit circled with empty beer cans lingers in the morning light; its smoggy remains clings tightly to summer clothes that will soon reek of burnt leaves and gasoline. When the time is right, some noble person will try to rehabilitate this stoic landfill, to lift
away stark-lit layers
ill suited for human plea-
sures. It shall rest in piece.
Sep 24, 2010
Sep 24, 2010 at 2:31 PM UTC