Pure Pollutants

We toxify the air we need to breathe with burning plastic kisses,
With the heavy metal hug of plumbous, and the lightness of coal dust
Like diamond glitter tickling like a Tiffany heirloom in my throat.

Cement dust is a certain particulate matter I use to build
A house of pain in our chests, and I prefer them all to hurt in no particular order.

I inhabit an OMG zone at ground level among other organic combustibles,
Reactionary explosions in your lungs when the mood suits me, and when it doesn’t.

I suffer from an addiction to sulfur, to the musical flow and hiss of lava,
And the sweet violence of the volcanic - some ashes for the ashen.

There’s the tree I planted, twisted into leaflessness, made out of thickened air.

There’s my car idling at the green light.

There’s a slow extinction building for us.

I feel weak without the air filter of my spiralling curls, my own twin horns.
When they grow back I’ll add my tail and a new bident
Before the final feast of tainted fallen flesh commences.