M.I.
So the world softly exploded,
concussion grenade in a pillow factory;
shocking and disjointing,
dust and feathers spraying the vision,
tickling the optic nerve.
Clattering and booming, although
silently, like an inconsequential earthquake
in a vacuum.
Heartbeats came limping through,
dull, solemn, the drum accompanying
a funeral march, slightly out of time.
Green lines skipped and blipped,
radar peaks and troughs,
portions erased here and there
gaps in the picture.
There’s no life on Mars,
and little left in here in this room,
well, curtained cubicle
of sparse clinical veneer.
Alone with sensations of dying and
death, alone with the self,
last thoughts,
a mortal coil sparkling weakly
like slowly flattening lemonade.
Ah, let’s not be melodramatic,
this supposed cataclysm,
seismic event of the flesh,
it’s, quite frankly,
overrated…
and as for pain,
I’ve had worse…
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