ME (NOW)

Come, fertilise me, in your thousands, man and beast. Give me your sheep shit, your rotten berries, your own good piss. Do not be shy and hold it in for the public lavatories on Fore Street. Squat in my bushes, stand proud above my ravines, or shake your fluffy tail in my face – whatever is the most convenient method for you, I don’t mind – and let it out. Do not industrially monostraddle me with your insane lust for profit. Rid me of this relentless chemical run-off. Farm me, by all means, but farm me with tact, kindness, sympathy. Farm me gently. Farm me slowly. Take it easy. Don’t you know, that I have never been farmed like this before. At least not since some time in the mid-1800s, or during that short-lived organic project by that couple last decade, which sadly didn’t come off due to funding issues.