Plastic
everything is burnt or burning
not by real fire
I am standing
on something connected
to everywhere that is nowhere
Birds scream
wind buffs my shrinking head
my skin is plastic
salt-spray chaps
it's almost 3D
but everything will always be TV to me
My broken compass
is directed
toward fibre-glass worlds
that never rot
that will now never decay
like us
The name of months/seasons
seem archaic/mythological
my eyes regress/disillusioned
not aware as such
find it harder to make words
from shapes
Blended objects
I am one of those
vaporised/granulated/atomised
bounced off the sharp walls
glasshouse green hybrid stones
don't break anymore
Rain splashes
acidic/translucent/plasti-coated
melting my tired yet welcoming eyes . . .  | |
| Not sure who did this one (wish it were I) |
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