Do you ever wonder how it would feel
to never come down from the
high high spiraling galactic freeze
the heat squeezed through a straw and the fingers
white hot fingers a mile long
pulling all the grey matter apart (to get to the good stuff)
the pulpy electric mass fringing fraying
dripping with excellent juice
(oranges and that stuff left in the meat package)
they aren’t too careful might slip
might loose that crackling potential that

          god I hope so
will burn everyone in this room, burn them like the sun
in its slow wandering hands (woah there) pulling up out into space
and then suddenly dropped pushed
mashed back down into a single point so tiny you gotta bash your head on the wall
no sir no helmet for me and space is damn cold
hand me the joystick, the weather is fine

and the stars don’t ever blink damn damn call out my name
the wheels have left the pavement.


(this is all very nice but
I haven’t got any paper
just a fragile little lead and a desk made out of plastic for chrissake
you can’t write a single eureka on that.)

The End

1 comment about this poem Feed