010110 Earth Undefined

I've written what seems like a million words
about flora, fauna and the inanimate earth
but sometimes the words melt into a mess
of strange squirls and stop making sense.

I begin to question, when I am alone
(because internal chatter is inversely proportional
to the amount of external chatter received),
the validity of their motivations.

After all it's not so hard to see
the overwhelming self-similarity,
a crude fractal topography,
between environmentalism and religious belief:

- actions defined by good and evil
- a strict system of morality
- a better place at the end of it all
- the drive to recruit more devotees

Like stars, God left a void when he died,
and we, like nature, fucking hate a vacuum
so we've scraped around finding replacements.
Like nukes before it, this is a science disasterpiece.

But apart from others, I need to question
the purpose of nature in my own writing.
Is it sprung from dungeons of passion
or cannon fodder for my own vanity?

Crass shouted that actionless sloganeering
is just another Punch and Judy show;
well I am Punch and my words are Judy,
and she's battered until my ego is sated.

The usefulness of eco-poetics in affecting anything
seems entirely negligable when environmentalism
itself wavers so dangerously close to the problems
that are the cause for crisis in climate identity.

Is it all just a stopgap until another religion,
some ugly child of Islam and Christianity
infused with the principles of eco-sciences,
grafts itself onto the skin of human society?

FUCK OFF ENVRIONMENTALISM. BRING THE EARTH.