Another modern fable.
The old landfill site,
Rid it of its contorted contents,
So many burial goods hidden
For the next journey across
The rancid river dividing nature and culture;
And what of the discovered cultures?
They say one is the Polymers, a molecular
Group which invaded the entire globe,
Bringing so-called civilisation in the Age of Plastic;
Without them humankind couldn't do anything,
Not eat, not drink, not wash, not sleep -
Everything was contained in something else.
And another is the Cans, a martial culture,
Wore armour from head to toe, swooped down
In droves from their factory homelands,
Occupied great tracts of land, shoulder to shoulder;
The only way to appease them was to take them home,
Befriend them, open them up, consume their contents,
Promise them a warrior's funeral, flattened in a black bag;
But that all changed with the coming of the Recyclers,
Driving their distinctive green chariots and chanting
Their war cry: 'The Earth's in pain, use everthing again!'.
It's the Recyclers who are digging up the ancient graveyard,
Showing no respect to the sensitivities of those at rusty rest
Or in peaceful polyphene; call me old fashioned but they are
Nothing more than grave-robbers, the latest Burke and Hare;
Look out, one's coming over -
'Nice morning for a dig, sir, found anything interesting?'.
Chris Fernie, 2006
Poetry by Chris Fernie
Read 547 times
Written on 2006-12-05 at 10:40
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The lost tribes of humankind
They've disgorgedThe old landfill site,
Rid it of its contorted contents,
So many burial goods hidden
For the next journey across
The rancid river dividing nature and culture;
And what of the discovered cultures?
They say one is the Polymers, a molecular
Group which invaded the entire globe,
Bringing so-called civilisation in the Age of Plastic;
Without them humankind couldn't do anything,
Not eat, not drink, not wash, not sleep -
Everything was contained in something else.
And another is the Cans, a martial culture,
Wore armour from head to toe, swooped down
In droves from their factory homelands,
Occupied great tracts of land, shoulder to shoulder;
The only way to appease them was to take them home,
Befriend them, open them up, consume their contents,
Promise them a warrior's funeral, flattened in a black bag;
But that all changed with the coming of the Recyclers,
Driving their distinctive green chariots and chanting
Their war cry: 'The Earth's in pain, use everthing again!'.
It's the Recyclers who are digging up the ancient graveyard,
Showing no respect to the sensitivities of those at rusty rest
Or in peaceful polyphene; call me old fashioned but they are
Nothing more than grave-robbers, the latest Burke and Hare;
Look out, one's coming over -
'Nice morning for a dig, sir, found anything interesting?'.
Chris Fernie, 2006
Poetry by Chris Fernie
Read 547 times
Written on 2006-12-05 at 10:40
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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Zachary P. B. |
