new poem

it's true, insofar as that makes any logic that there are too many runways lousing up the verdant corridors of the arborboretums; of which, less later. I'm a snot-nosed brat and oafish loiterer, a slightly better-looking Jabba, if you get references to mainstream cinema.

Soon, it will be too late for self-

hate, and we will all be projected

to the ultra-task of rescuing Gaia

which is a good idea, excepting that

the human infestation is the hoist

of its own petard, to rephrase the Bard; the pre-eminent word is humanity needs to cop on to itself, smell the plankton, and pull its plastic finger out. We'll be nostalgic for dystopia soon enough, it'll look comic in comparison to the horrors en route; fully-feeling-thinking robots to spend for us, and care for our ageing sick. It's going to be synthetic, dense, interhard, and wired to the max.

I shave my head and groin in advance

to hail the seafaring future as it comes.

I wanted to be less spoiled, cruel,

self-invested, grossly corpulent,

and more gentle with slaves.

But I'd read Caligula's life writing.

I was moved to identify with the empire.

I looked in the broken ice, to see

the white pale moon of corrupting vice

radiating like historic glee back

directly at the self-regarding core of me.

Better advisors, sombre men

with six-packs and no rice or bread diets have kindly nudged me towards sober second-skindom, a cure at Troy's Steakhouse Emporium with the Sinatra impostors and sloppy-chef in wife-beater mode; the waitress is a junky manqué dressed in a kitsch homage to Jim Crow; they're repackaging evil as a nostalgic show - content is a ravenous king; I devour the latest boxes of product and engage with the potent arc of character; of which I require more; and more will-power, and less brazen exploitation; but being a toxicity as an IP is a kick in the head. My kind would improve the world situation if we jumped off a cliff; call me Biff, call me Happy, put the hung-over insolence on Broadway; just admit the weak are inheriting a pretty shoddy Earth, will Jesus recycle all the Bibles used to kill the Amazon trees?

Then again, he doesn't really like

trees very much, does he? You note

the arch tone? The smirking indifference?

That's what being a suburban white boy means.

I lied to my babysitter and never ate

my collard greens; but I seek to rejuvenate as a better man, an oxymoron as a new sort of corporate religion - try resurrecting trash-talking frat dudes.

See my uncle's anti-Jap paperbacks?

See my father's vegetation-rich Scandi nudes?

To prune back the problems

you need Malcolm X measures, but

in the hands of tall Nordic actors

dressed for a Pinewood lot, re-enacting the Molotov pact - that quisling thing.

I'm trying to bash sense into my brains

by way of your thickest skull instead

to spare my pains - to skin this cat-snake you need to unscrew the Ouroboros blow-jobbery of this predicament we're embalmed in. I am saying, repeat, saying, the form I reside within, human being, is the epicentric ice-pick main culprit; get a surgeon called Mister St John Cherrybomb to expensively remove us from ourselves, and let loose the victims, saints, unborn ones to plant improved, oracular seeds, to envisage a golden terrain untethered to foreign taxonomies, or anti-nativist invasion.

May I just add, because this is about

my own insecure stronghold, the biological turrets improbably mounted, I appreciate my mother, wife, and dear friends, and thank my priest and psychiatrists for all their efforts to pave over my raw soil, and do an eco-wash on my yellow trousers.

My soul is small, but it is mine own.

August, 2019
poem by t swift