Alone At The Landfill

This world is a cemetery. Often I visit my plot.
 And listen to the winds ripe with trichloroethylene.
 This stagnant "air". Sometimes it speaks to me.
 Tells me of damnation. Rightly just and on the horizon.
 Knee-deep in a concentrated stockpile
 of manufactured scraps foretelling human downfall.
 Grisly. Obscene. Toxic. Motherfucking desert.
 Sifting through the ghosts of human consumerism
 I find myself searching for body parts
 to add to my collection
 A hand. A finger. A leg. A head.
 The dead sometimes reside alone at the landfill.
 This is forever. Time now an enemy.
 Humans are forever failures...
 The children wade in the leachate
 diseases - man made and carried on through the DNA
 of our future to which we're slaves.
 The world as a trash heap where we bury the past.
 We try not to ponder the fact that our
 detestable actions will forever last.
 Ethylene dibromide, methane and carbon dioxide.
 Slowly dissolving human body parts reside in the excess.
 Knee-deep in a never ending stockpile
 of manufactured trash reminiscing human existence.
 Among the fermenting stench is the fallout of humanity.
 A virulent force of passive destruction.
 Harbinger of perdition, herald to pandemonium
 In our own contamination we are forced to drown.
 Hideous. Shameless. Toxicant. Goddamned desolate.