Sunday, 7 December 2014

Sunday Poem

Launched on abracadabra, searching steamed rock
ruled by the lizards. Where we arrived it stunk
from extinction and exhale. One of our crew
whispered, We have landed on Venus. The navigator 
believed him and died from the burn in his lungs.
Our map predicted mountain ranges, chartreuse
lakes. Instead, hot quarries swallowed sunrise,
we kept time by quake strength and sulfur hallucination. 
Our instruments lost pace with the paramecia. The rust
was proof of oxygen. Still, we grieved for future
suffocations. Our vessel started as a notebook sketch
from a dream seized by stiff drinks. Escape muscles

calcified, reentry theories perished and the bones emerged
as decorative fossils. The dead machines, benign constellations
tainted each drop of our blood water. Amnesia became
magic. We dared believe we deserved the home we had.
From Everyone is CO2 (Wolsak & Wynne) by David James Brock 

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