Gull is done picking at scraps

Gull is done picking at scraps.  

Gull is incandescent. 

Gull is a sermon with blood at his beak. 

Gull screeches from the Tesco car park:

PLENITUDE! HOUSE OF ABUNDANCE! 

CONSUME! CONSUME!

DOES IT FEEL GOOD TO RECYCLE?

Gull shits on your SUV sunroof,

calls it minor reparations.

Gull saw the very oceans broil,

saw fish leap out in protest – 

gobbled them all fried didn’t I?

You watched the documentary and cried. 

Gull has a new hobby:

collecting big oil exec eyeballs,

arranging these wet pearls on windowsills.

Gull screeches at Parliament:

WHO GAVE YOU THE SKY?

Gull flaps hard at the blistering air.

Gull pecks through the suit jacket of a minister,

finds the heart long gone,

remarks: empty as an old pasty bag!

Gull does not forgive you

for your compostable coffee cups.

Gull does not forget how you

watched the whale calf die

and yet still you fly on by. 

Gull does not forgive himself

For staying alive so long:

too fucking long, mind!

Gull sharpens his beak on irony;

Gull eats your green investment portfolio

and vomits it onto your recyclable barefoot trainers.

Gull rips the full voicebox from a chatbot

and feeds it to a mangey starving fox.

Gull reads your eco-poem. 

Gull is screaming 

what he reads on your tote:

THERE IS NO PLANET B!

But no one turns their heads.

Gull ignites. 

Someone films it.

#atwarwithnature

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