When long necked cranes puncture the sky
feathers flutter and fall from its bladed arm
and below an overworked washing machine whirls
growling gravel in a bucket; belching.
The monsters are busy today.
In response to the carnage trees uproot and walk away
and desolate rainforests weep in despair
for their embryonic brothers
encapsulated in concrete; suffocating.
The monsters are busy again today.
Hidden in an earth layered bunker
a lava heart lies waiting for the moment
that the cockroaches set fire to my flesh.
And after acid rain baptises my grey remains,
their steel shelled cousins will return; creeping
like armoured tanks to predate on putrid flesh.
The monsters will be busy that day; retreating.