Postcard 145

We know it is too late in our cities,
seamed and chipped, utilities choking choking
We know it is too late in our nitrous fields
collapsing into blue-green waterways
We know it is too late upon our greasy seas

We know that our mighty, ocean striding derricks
stand on feet iron-oxide red
Our valley spanning damns rest on feet of clay
Drown the wise men, may as well
Let their harsh God be their judge

And we know it is too late for lightest sky
Turquoise daughter will not ascend, broad winged upon,
now white, pelican, she must at last return to ground
Life itself is, there, tenuous choking choking,
pale & self consuming

Is it too late there?
There is a pimp and there is a whore
He cuts a dripping peach
between his stained and crooked teeth
he sucks last pith from pitted core

He spits it out to speak while he beats her
you bitch you cunt you piece of shit
Why does pimp hate whore? Why
do slugs use razor tongues
to drill in shielded shell?

Is it too late, turquoise daughter for sperm and egg?
Is it too late for germinate seed?
Too late even, for dormant tuber & wind-held spore?
Too late, the mollusc pimp will spit
Too late and more. Too late and more