the scene is layered with ghosts
who obscure and befuddle
and strip you of your sensibilities
until pale wisps of expectation
now disfigured from the beating
the cold remnants of the cheating
stripped bare and empty
where only a wind-whistling-dark-nothing.

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.