(untitled) -- a collection of experimental poetry [COMPLETE]

the stars are not stars.

It's the viruses that'll win, it's the viruses that have won.

There are two destinies. To be exterminated and to choke on bulbs of puss swelling in your throat. Or, to degenerate into life's simplest, most sinister form.

Imagine a starship, entering a system where humans have detected life. As they approach a greenish-yellow gas giant, it trembles. It crumbles into a trillion spasming cluster, rapidly engulfing the ship.

Imagine this dense soup of miasma, heartless biological programs, burrowing a billion holes into the hull. Spacesuits, lifelessly floating in free-fall, dissolving, revealing a agonised face which decays into muscle, into bone, into nothing.

The colossal ocean of particles reassembles into an almost perfect sphere. In the distance, the system's binary stars twitch like bulbous spider eggs.

The Universe is infected.

The stars are not stars.

They are a glimmering mimicry, made to attract curious prey.