by L. O’Neill, Ireland
Plastic laps on the shore. Neptune tossing up the meals he cannot digest; cola bottles, containers, oil drums bobbing like refugees on the waves. All our great gods have fallen now that we have surpassed them in the sheer volume and nature of immortals we can create. Neptune tosses up what he can’t digest; our past lives come back to haunt us on the flowing tide of a sewer, we used to call ‘the sea’.
