The True Book About Trees
I work to kill trees
or to melt sand into glass
for computer screens.
I use more ink
than a squid might think
to bring the quids in,
use hours and hours
of pointless manpower
to turn my thoughts from the shower
into words to devour,
and in another life
I was a lumberjack.
My hands weren’t made
for manual labour;
I savour the way
my brain behaves
and write words
on the page,
and maybe
I’m going crazy.
My computer
steals electricity;
I feed it and feed it
and it eats and eats
and then EDF Energy
tries to smash my door in;
it’s just a game we play
with multinational corporations,
but I can’t pay my debts
with free exposure.
So I cut down more trees
to spread words like disease,
a Dawkins meme
from The Selfish Gene
and it seems so easy
to mean something.
I meant every word
I ever said.
