the sick sack that makes them tick tack,
spilled for us all to see and tread upon.
A tissue-match and fingerprint of
the consumerisation of all their desires.
The antigen of our allergic recoil,
the DNA miss-match of our desires.
The antithesis of the pheromones
of our self-ingratiated individuality.
Do they have no empathy for personal space?
Or do they not (sod you!) care?
Do they not realise that they exfoliate
the scabs from their shingled nerves?
The herpes of their ripped plastic bags,
spilling their guts for us to denigrate
under the boot of our shoo!
Why not let it pile up to high heaven and
drown the whole world, suffocating the cortex
of minds animalised with snarls, and relegated to
an army-ant, forest-floor, detritus-eating,
retrograded amnesic, anarchy.
No escape on the rosary of a plasticised ocean.
No breath of fresh air, or even that final dust to dust,
for all scream toxic! Toxic! The LD 50 siren sounds.
Fly tipping their putrid puke, has rotted our salad days,
and screams of our inability to cohabit in personal spaces
and orderly paths undulating from cradle to grave.
Now thrown out of the window of passing through,
as they pass through what others have thrown
out of the window of their passing through.
For fly-tipping our lives in piles,
just here and there,
is where, we will surely end our days.
Lords and ladies of the flies,
will you (must you),
will we (must we),
sore wallow,
tip wallow?
So what!
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