Nothing grows here but sea kale
and spite. We walk towards a horizon
that refuses to get any closer,
under the sun’s pixelated glare.
Having no sense of perspective,
I almost trip over rusting cogs
of some unidentifiable machine.
We are watched by a power plant,
it’s polygonal bulk threatening
to heave and shiver. The brutalist
structure is devoid of sound effects.
We have noclipped into a staging area
where broken textures are stored
and defragged on repeating shingle.
And here is where the boats will land
this glitched landscape full of errors.
Here bodies will become headlines,
become local gossip, become a way of life.
And here is where people in wool suits
will shove mothers, brothers and children
back into the broken waves of the sea.
I really hope we get rid of this unusually cruel government soon.