Most everything that is liquid here stings.
This world, Farrs Omres, is full of unexpected tastes:
Our fabric-forests feed us, in their liquor-soaked way.
(Tough digestive tracts. They draw out nutrition wherever possible.)
There's life on Farrs Omres. It adapted.
We wait for clouds with shot-tubes,
To save much of what falls.
We're rewarded with a kind of beauty:
The red-sun'd skies are somehow burnished, even when clear; and the clouds, in their way, shine.
But neither grass nor grass can live here, so you're not maintaining a nice green lawn, or taking the edge off that smoked way.
Our jerky-cows get tough quick, to keep from soaking up all the alcohol in their hides.
They live off of the fumes.
Metal here is alive; it grows like trees,
Out of ground that can shock you.
Farrs Omres: It's a world that is harsh,
Clanging and loud:
But wreckage from crashed Jjesh-ships got salvaged into timpani,
And, at least, the music beats on.
Come to think of it, Tom Waits's "Earth Died Screaming" could be considered SF...
**(partly because no one else would take credit for this)**
Edited To Add: I recorded it!