Ode to a Poor Screaming Child Afraid of The Heat Death of The Universe

I have a primal urge to find a lifelong mate
I’m a hidden treasure to excavate
Thoughtful child of thirty-one
Enjoys self-destruction in the sun
Morosely prodding intrusive thoughts
I like to write lists of all my faults
My larynx works, my posture bent
Still haven’t learn to pitch a tent
Outside, there’s danger at every turn
A mollusc, a man, a lesson to learn
But sod the local earth-centric view
I think about the intergalactic news
A tiny spec of cosmic dust
Who thinks about the universe
How its matter will lose its spark
From my carbon to a tiny quark
It’s absurd to feel a sexual need
To reproduce a miniature version of me
A skulking toddler, leans into my ear
Asks “Daddy, why on Earth am I here?”
I can’t explain the causal link
Between the anthropocene and kitchen sink
Maybe I made a huge mistake
But now I know, it’s far too late
To be the seed that won the race
To fear the vacuum outside of space
I sleep on borrowed time and breath
From a Universe ever nearing its heat death

Advertisements
Ode to a Poor Screaming Child Afraid of The Heat Death of The Universe

Bounce

A cool breeze had come over me
The river breaking through the sandbanks
Tidal waves rhythmically crashing onto
Jagged, weathered rocks
I took deep breaths, the sea followed
My little puppet, restless and destructive
She had dark brown hair and blue eyes
Like so many of us do
Photogenic skin, soft and clean
The waters calm, for now
Sleeping peacefully through
The kindest years
An alarm clock rings, and we
Shut it off for a few more weeks
As the early season storms
Blow away any return
To a deep summer slumber
Brown leaves grey and white
Anxiously washing away
Downstream, through the puddles
To the lake, to an ocean
But soon, we’ll be dry
Caught by a bank
During an insurance storm
We only bounce back
So many times

Bounce

Habit

Should we meet face to face
Not screen to screen or
Keyboard to keyboard
Uncertainty in the eye of the sender
Picking out an imperfect mark
At thirty-five pixelated paces
Looking for an excuse
To avoid changing my routine
Swiping left for melancholy
But feeling justified in rejection.
Even if she is worth it
One day her face will sag
Wrinkles weather my vanity
With an exasperated demeanour
I’m tiresome, an old git
Never staring into a mirror
For fear of what it might reflect
I can only imagine the face
I used to wear at twenty-five
Wasn’t much of a groomer
Bad habits never scrubbed off
The grime from my pores
Easier to be cynical than dress
Appropriately for the occasion
She holds her drink like she was
Taught to be courteous
This love, a poisoned wine
I think I muttered it forcefully
Enough for her to leave
I’m rational and sober
Drinking tap water
Overgrown strands of hair
Hide the crocodile tears
The bottled up emotion
Slipping through the small
Gaps in between my teeth.
A small submissive ape
Philosophising about being
Misunderstood, when all
I wanted was what I had anyway

 

 

 

Habit

Outline

I’m still trying to prove
Something of value lurks
Inside this precious metal
A gift, or a token, a symbol
Of following orders?
I look back wearily at
Each decade I’ve worn it
Pour scorn on lessons learnt
The times I left myself wide open
Sticking the knife in for not
Having the foresight
To prepare, or to improvise
Making peace with a woman
That makes me frown
Even after all this time
I can still hear a young voice
Whispering into my ear
Her first impression left
The biggest crater
But its outline hardly
Resembles the monster
I rue the day I met

Outline

Prime

Dead people sing in old styles
About love and being young
At a prime number, like 29
Unplugged and unafraid
A sweet phrasing of words
Hopeful naivety over the
Swinging rhythm and bass
Lines cauterised, verbosity subtle
But never simply ending
By premeditated rhyme
It’s the cut we hear, I suppose
Not the toil and torment it took
Nor the fear of a godless universe
A painful death, and an unending
Downward slope with an
Exponential curve like
An old lady’s spine
Youth is wasted, but fearing
Death wastes years when
A body is at its best, mind sharp
Dexterous limbs seek new thrills
Habits that last a minute
Or form lifelong bonds
Until each record starts to break

Prime

Feelings

Those who write love songs
Should be shot on sight
Lined against a wall
Shown a grainy stream
Of their significant others
Weeping in pain
We drink champagne
To their broken spirit
And laugh about
Feeling dead inside
Emboldened by rage
Growing like the wall
Flowers between buildings
Speaking out is insolence
No love sweeter
Than breathing in
Cosmic dust
Feelings are a distraction
From the death
Of the universe

Feelings