| This world is a cemetery. |
| Often I visit my plot
|
| And listen to the winds ripe with trichloroethylene
|
| This stagnant «air». |
| Sometimes it speaks to me
|
| Tells me of damnation. |
| Rightly just and on the horizon
|
| Knee-deep in a concentrated stockpile of manufactured scraps foretelling human
|
| downfall
|
| Grisly. |
| Obscene. |
| Toxic. |
| Motherfucking desert
|
| Sifting through the ghosts of human consumerism
|
| I find myself searching for body parts to add to my collection
|
| A hand. |
| A finger. |
| A leg. |
| A head
|
| The dead sometimes reside alone at the landfill
|
| This is forever. |
| Time now an enemy
|
| Humans are forever failures…
|
| The children wade in the leachate
|
| Diseases — man made and carried on through the DNA
|
| Of our future to which we’re slaves
|
| The world as a trash heap where we bury the past
|
| We try not to ponder the fact that our detestable actions will forever last
|
| Ethylene dibromide, methane and carbon dioxide
|
| Slowly dissolving human body parts reside in the excess
|
| Knee-deep in a never ending stockpile of manufactured trash reminiscing human
|
| existence
|
| Among the fermenting stench is the fallout of humanity
|
| A virulent force of passive destruction
|
| Harbinger of perdition, herald to pandemonium
|
| In our own contamination we are forced to drown
|
| Hideous. |
| Shameless. |
| Toxicant. |
| Goddamned desolate |