We all trip violently
into the interstellar void
only to get sandwiched
between a billion galaxies still sticky
with the invisible glue of dark matter.
For we are all just meals
to the lumbering minions
of the universe.
Drop your ear groundward
the bone crunchers
Their fangs slip disdainfully out,
teeth full of whirling clockwork gears
and life-sucking years as they rumble closer,
I dry her tears of discontent with kisses
that lovingly chase the curve of her spine.
I slip my fingers in between her lips.
I slide my tongue down her shuddering back
as a rainbow of colorful stars swallows my eyes.
Anxiously I await a breathy response
but instead her silhouette melts into silence
as time leaps forward and I am left resplendently alone,
whispering silky nothings to myself,
cutting out my own heartbeats then crashing them
against every windowpane I’ve sat listlessly by,
grasping for unattainable moments,
scraping fingernails of yearning across this jagged forehead
which rises and falls like a lung-shaped junkyard
full of half-finished metal sculptures.
Suddenly her smile returns like a vengeful sunrise,
stripping the darkness and refilling every lake
in our watery constellation of desire.
I paint onto the canvas of her body
a ruby mountain that shimmers like songbirds
serenading the daylight as the growing tremors of touch
shake the wisdom from my mind,
leaving me joyfully imprisoned in a cage of delight,
freed to explore the flushed terrain of her welcoming body.
Yet the beasts always bite back,
brutalizing lips and fingertips,
pulverizing dreams into scattered layers of dust
that quietly pirouette to the dessicated rhythm
of a matter-blasted moonscape.
There in the bushy hillside of our hearts
we burn in the brushfire of malcontent,
spurning every helping hand,
for each one seems to hold a silver dagger
bejeweled with sprays of blood left
by the spent foot soldiers of sentience.
Wherever the sky spurns us,
flicker as the asteroids turn.
Whenever this ash heap of a life explodes into the atmosphere,
our faces become gravestones formed by clouds,
our eyes impact craters left by the crime of the human mind.
So smash us together
with our antimatter twins,
so we can incinerate the rings
that shield Saturn’s skin.
A gash rips open the stellar curtain,
sending our memory-stained limbs hurling towards the Oort cloud;
yet instead of becoming inert spare parts once again,
we feel the glorious blast of ultimate release
as a supernova shuttles us past the event horizon
of a supermassive black hole:
to a halt
the fabric of space
shrinking so powerfully into a single point
that even the galloping legs of time
against the walls
sons and daughters
is where we belong
our frozen song;
to the beginning
by the sheer force
like future astronauts
whose hands haunt
the kingdom of absolute zero
whose joyful tears
of ripened discovery
hang like amber knives
over the heart of a singularity.
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