afflicted by the news that everybody got married yesterday.
Every action was so well choreographed within the ash
of the nebula – itself sprung like a fat dusty teabag.
Ignoring the drunk fireflies (those wannabe beacons)
we were instead shown home through the smog via our bat-smart
echolocation, the dubious art of sending a blip and waiting
for it to bounce back,
slack-jawed, blood cells dripping on the black
dissuasive welcome mat but we’re home and
we’d successfully permitted the nebula into the mass dissatisfied.
The most influential among us earmarked a Soviet tank
for our leader, while the rest just opted for
cheesy high-tech hair, like exploring oil plumes
teased out of their scalps.
Lizard heat mid-vein burnt off the cold water hope
trying to flush down our slow advance to the throat;
all this pollution responded by threatening
to delete our party with a rude swallow. Then everybody just
blacked out. The mass dissatisfied turned into an old concept,
a bungled death; space movements didn’t dissipate
all that ringing of flying creatures in our ears.
Then our second in command got a rather dignified moniker:
‘So, DEAN OF NONSENSE,’ we all cheered, glad for him –
but he wasn’t properly protected by the others, so we said,
‘DEAN OF NONSENSE, pray tell us why you’d barter
the metaphor for the privilege to be televised?’
So protect those in your midst who know the first thing
about throwing bright pellets of sound at tin surfaces
lest everyone in our flight path gets a nervous breakdown.
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