Plastic Snow
At the top of the world you sparkle with seclusion, sheathed in winter’s blade from the grubby tracks of those tainted, foul machines. But something
"this is sixth form poetry, not Keats or Yeats"
At the top of the world you sparkle with seclusion, sheathed in winter’s blade from the grubby tracks of those tainted, foul machines. But something
Countless contaminants pour forth from progress into organic systems that purred with life. Every novel entity a jagged cog catching the fabric of our planet’s
Swirling underground, invisible toxins leach into view. Potent cocktails of mismanaged waste that ebb and drift and flow. Flow into wells that hide in plain
The Earth tries to sleep, casting off the shadows of a distant star beneath the tattered veil of greying night. Behind thinning eyelids the atmosphere
Cascading carelessly past weathered ore you slither into view against the levee’s edge. Sparkling waters that blister in the warming sun, their see-through hues a
Crackling branches snap in the heat, as smoke cascades like filthy waterfalls across the burning embers of this heated, hated land. An unbottled genie launched
Rafts of golden brown drift across the sea, leafy suburbs providing food, refuge, life, for the flotsam of fish that bathe between your branches. Filefish,
Sunken in the sediment smudged relics protrude, translucent waste that shimmers in its bed of filth. A menagerie of treasures that mark our spot in
Icy breath cascades across our asphalt arteries, meandering blockages that we incinerate with shovelfuls of salted grit; their cloying excess overspilling into unkempt reservoirs that
Jutting from the salted froth your solitary canine flashes in the midnight sun, revealing wrinkled rivulets that labour under our insignia; ivory forget-me-nots of all