If rent keeps rising I will pack my bags
and move to where it doesn’t cost any,
To an island of our own creation
Where all that it means to be human in this century
is right under your feet.
There are no rolling hills, no lakes, no soil, no soul.
There is only plastic on trash island.
Surrounded by my trash, I will have my dinner.
I will cut it up, poke my fork into it, bring it to my mouth,
and chew.
Chew to my heart’s content I can,
but it will not soften, it will not shred,
So I swallow and choke.
It will consume us if we keep consuming it.
There is only plastic on trash island.
I dress in it;
It gives me pimples on my back, and rashes on my forearm.
But I now dress in it:
Its particles may dislodge themselves in the wash
and somehow find themselves in the living beating hearts
of new-born children,
But we now all dress in it
Because there is only plastic on trash island.
I ask the mother
‘why do you dress your kids in plastic,
why do you feed it to them too’
‘It’s what I was given’, she replies
‘and I’ve got nothing to win and nothing to lose’
because there is only plastic on trash island.
there are no hopes, nor ambitions
no goals or adoration.
there are only sullen gray hearts
and the sound of suffocation
as people drown in all this,
all that we have consumed.
–
