Precisely seven suns fall into a bright studded ring and orbit in a long dance. Some loner catapults through the bullseye – its a hard trick but you have to impress all the space lovers some bright way –
why not that? Or gain some time by close orbit to the black. They said you were too old – well how about now, years in days. If you cut a black hole clean into two it behaves like a worm and grows thick and full
again. My world is half sea and half mirrors – it is hard to notice as it barrels around you, floating darkness unless for one small moment you notice the eye open, as it reflects my home sun
and it simply stumps gazers as they scrabble to note it – but by then the new star’s gone. My star is so bright you must wear sunglasses in the dark. My star is sentient – and sings, we note, one long, clear, beam
fixing her eyes into the void.
She was eating –
though without need –
a bowl of noodles.
When she sucked a last
noodle in, another
universe flicked off the end.
And she sat quite perplexed
at what to do with the mess.
There were so many
little nebulous drops
sparkling in the depths
she decided not to bother
with a cleanup
The guitar is a universe
that grows in the air. It is here
in the park, in the trees raptness
to the wind. It is in the move
beneath us, of the dirt and stone
bassline. The voice also becomes
a timeless concept, borne with time
when space itself became vocal
and elements harmonised from
the raw newness which was pouring
from the gaps between strings. A voice
of violin becomes a strain
of primitive object in the
clearing between trees. I claim this
origin of tones to be so
essential as to be veinlike.
You cannot take it from us and
leave us with eyes. The grass has bent
under thousands of intentions –
each competing for the title
of the most complex object in
the real. And each most beautiful.
Nutrients flow in paths that forge
bright thoughts and so I am heavy