It’s all a bit unsteady-eddie
the machine is in disrepair
a cooling tick
and metal shavings
they say this is the smell of space
the scent of the black expanse
where unstable orbits
inevitably collide
for the light show
sky-shattering
Fs in the chat, boys
Fs in the chat.
The hand quivers, the fingers numb –
clenched to the steering wheel
the colour of concentration,
his thumb taps ever-so-timely
now a long-forgotten song.
a talent so lovingly pruned
here, now, it seeks the muse
and to be the muse
of the man with the fingers;
dripping with paint
and oh those baby-blues
with light refracting heart-snare
step into the vortices
and take me,
take me there.
Oh! Ego. Argo – not again!
Painless, not pointless.
It won’t happen…
not like you; I’m different (!).
Rest assured,
or don’t rest at all,
you know it’s only
a matter of time
before you push the button.
Go on.
Push it.