stars are dead as we see them through this inert atmosphere. as you moisturize your grasshopper hands with golden, florid plasma, we begin to wonder whether the books in your library ever helped you conquer the universe. crushing black holes between our teeth like iced berries picked at winter's worst, we pluck comets from their homelands to use as lawn decorations. possessions have always controlled us as we fly into space debris and milky way smiles, trying to find a neutron star's nectar as we sail through decomposing blue giants. tree leaves resemble oscillating gravitational waves that brush our backs with the pretence of ignorance.
YOU ARE READING
paraphernalia
Poetrypretentious poetry. FOREWARNING: this was written over three years. my style changes dramatically, as does everything else. quality of pieces varies.
