‘Substitute’, The Who
Sliced open, my body lay on the coast
below the foaming, scud-spitting horizon.
I was a treasure trove of junk and rubbish.
Stomach bulging with everything
that has an indestructible forever:
all plastic, so that I was stuffed
from head to tail and wing to wing
before I’d ever taken flight.
It was to the tolling of the bell that
rings out over the mud flats at Wier
that I woke from my dreams with a start,
aghast at the driving snow, grains
with no more soul than mindless oil.
And as the rolling white hail swept
the fields, I knew: We’re all born
with plastic spoons in our mouths.
Translation: David Colmer