– an endangered brute –
turned extra cute:
it’s rolling in the sandy dunes
on lazy Sunday afternoons.
fiercely locking horns,
it’s chomping through untidy lawns.
It seems to think
we need to see
its New Age
(Over the last few years, a small herd of European bisons has been reared in the sand-dunes of the Netherlands, providing hope that the endangered species might be able to survive in an environment other than its shrinking forest habitat.)
He should have lived a proper life
skimming through the ocean,
leaping over crested waves
constantly in motion.
he copped a plastic-bagging,
rubbished through and through,
loaded down with dump-truck debris,
weighted down with goo..
stuffed with soggy rottings,
riddled-through with dross,
intestinally packed and padded,
puffed, like candy-floss.
it wasn’t that the plastic-baggers
didn’t care a jot,
the nations of the planet
have gone and lost the plot.
[3rd June…a whale was reported to have died in Thailand as a result of having swallowed 80 plastic bin-bags which were found lodged inside its stomach.]
it looks so modern
with its neat and tidy lines
compact and yet audacious
like a futuristic shrine
in these self-indulgent times
an age of perspicacity
had set its paradigms
like a throwback to old times
How romantic it can seem
when ships are sailing on the sea…
when they’re shimmering on the waves,
gliding forwards endlessly…
pumping out their oily bilge,
casting off their waste debris,
wriggling aft their deck-held cargo,
plopping drums indelicately…
tumbling loose container-produce,
pooping, really, in the brine,
jettisoning a world of woes
onto this pristine beach of mine.
when you brew it in the lab,
but the percolating effluence
is every bit as bad!
They’ve been in that vase for twenty years.
I’ve dusted them each day.
They’ve always looked almost the same
until last Saturday,
a “test-tube enzyme” got to them
and chewed away the stems,
splattering on the doilies,
mouldering the hems.
spread along the tablecloth
towards my plastic tray
gnawing at the edge
until it ate the thing away,
including all the plastic cups,
the cutlery and plates,
so I dumped them in the plastic bin
outside my plastic gates.
the neighbourhood’s in panic-mode.
It’s spread through all their yards.
It’s right inside their pockets
eating through their credit cards!
The swirly-whirly swizzle straw’s
a favourite of mine.
It adds a twistie zinger
to my lemonade and lime.
It gives my Pimm’s pop status
at a party, when I dine.
But it messes up the ocean
when it flushes down the line.
So “ta-ta!” plastic swizzle straw :
you’ve brightened dismal days.
And now, I must denounce you
as a toxic, wasteful craze.
We’re about to take the world by storm
– my mutant genes and I.
But it won’t be with great buzz and flutter
– mostly, we’ll slip by
in pods and shells and packing cases
– firstly as small eggs,
hatching into caterpillars
– running on short legs,
crawling ’round in fruit and vegies,
chewing ’round the pits
– a most unpopular cropper-stopper,
chomping crops to bits.
If all of the rivers run dry,
we should make a sly pact, and just lie
– tell the next generation
that we, as a nation,
thought pollution would end when pigs fly.
It was out of our hands, we might say.
Nothing good could be done anyway.
We should let matters slide
on a notional tide
and just leave stuff to wither away.
It would be for the best, in the end.
We could huddle in groups and pretend
that we knew all the answers.
But, like so many chancers,
we drivelled our chances away.