plastic death
she used the blue blood moon
to blot her sea shaped eyes;
acid tears chemtrail skies
you suffocated her.
your machines took the trees
limbs snapped plague disease
broken arms can’t wrap, cradle.
micro beads swirling the seas
into her uterus
to bear the rotten fruit
until her last breath
the disguise of progress
plastic death
machine
machine does what he is told
there are lies to be sold
drones to the end of the day
makes his living this way
machine goes home at night
turns out all the lights
doesn’t know who he is
reality is not his
machine breaks down one day
has to be thrown away
left out in the cold
there are lies to be sold
Capitalism
hurts bad today. all that we have built
festers within my nearly hollowed shell the
candy pop shadow of nauseating filth is playing
an almost constant sponsored segment in my grey matter.
I want to run from it but
surely every corner of my existence would be permeated by this
cancer. ouch.
I can no longer determine whether the influence is external
or internal. The disease is that efficient.
some days it is certainly both. some days I know it is only me.
it must be. isn’t it only me? shouldn’t I be happy?
the television says I should be happy. the billboard model with the veneered
smile and the cartoon bubble of propaganda insists that I am happy because I have
-insert toxic commercial bullshit waste of time distraction here-.
and I do. I shop there, eat here, wear this, buy that, say this, look at those, pose like this, smile big, open wide, bend over…why can’t I be happy?
I can feel something tugging at my thoughts, drowning in there. I’m lovin it. I can taste the god damn rainbow. but supplies are limited. act now. please sign on the fucking dotted line.
..
Mela Blust is Florida raised, and has always had an affinity for dark things. She is a trauma survivor and a mother. Her work has appeared in Anti Heroin Chic, The Rye Whiskey Review, Nixes Mate Review, Califragile, Little Rose Magazine, Third Wednesday Magazine, The Magnolia Review, Rust+Moth, and is forthcoming in Rhythm and Bones Lit, Abstract Magazine, and Ink in Thirds.
I am not a silent poet 