…our own worst enemy in this dank sepulcher—made our beds—breathe our own discharges—drunk on permafrost tundra-seeping methane—make it hot—turn the drab orange heat dome up—breath impossible—so my name is hip-priest/king bombogenesis of the waning anthropocene—a wilt-dripping planet hotter than the pleistocene—scads of new fossil fuel made of the old consumers of the same—like the man sang many years ago—for here am I sitting sitting in a tin can far above the world planet earth is…
what is that grey-green distended ochre mass?
who wrote this?
who ran this ship aground?
“Yes. Or you forwards and I backwards. The perfect pair. Like Dante’s damned, with their faces arsy-versy. Our tears will water our bottoms.”
— Samuel Beckett / All That Fall