Black and White Poetics - Episode 1
SAMIR: And as the plastic swirls down the whirlpool, the world’s fools turn on their hazards - but, really, does it matter?
DANIEL: From icy to hot, the Arctic’s got a fever, squirming around like a great white amoeba, sure won’t be long before we can’t even see her...anymore.
SAMIR: The sun bakes the islands while we wait in silence, taping our eyelids...shut.
DANIEL: There is no escape, it’s too late - they’ve set dates! - and the fate we create is the one we shall take; so busy your bodies with hobbies and hope it doesn’t rob thee...of thy soul, whatever that means.
SAMIR: Smokestack lightning - oh, so frightening! - really ain’t no use in hiding.
DANIEL: Why, oh why, must we so diligently lay the foundations of an Earth uninhabitable? Have we forgotten the source of all of our joy? How can we be reminded? Perhaps more importantly, how can we be reminded in time?
SAMIR: Temperature rising, temperature rising, for we’ve made it our mission to increase emissions, and now I’m just wishing there was a way back but there ain’t...no, there ain’t.
DANIEL: Traffic jams slam the land, yet no one seems to understand - it’s our fault.
SAMIR: The intergovernmental panel would like to see this all handled, but we’re too busy running around in sandals to see our duties through - but, really, is this something new to you? Despite all their best intentions, they won’t even get a mention in a sentence from the masses - moving like molasses, permanently lazing on our...bums
DANIEL: So tell the next man you see to plant a tree - for there’s no Planet B.
SAMIR: With such an enormous scale, how can we afford to fail at our task of cleaning up this mighty green world? Do it for the boys and girls - don’t be clutching at your pearls! Cause if we do this all wrong, then we’ll all be long gone...for good.
DANIEL: “‘See you later, Mr. Equator!’ shrieks the heat as it sweeps the beat and hits the poles with just one goal - to penetrate the weary cold with its coals that burn with rage at the sages of our age that speak not of our many troubles, touching only on what bubbles to the surface, speaking cursive, sure of words that have no purpose.”