Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Amoeba. A poem
One of these days I'm going to produce a folio of poems--as soon as I figure out what a folio is.
Until then, a doodle and a dawdle.
And here goes:
Dr. Stranglove's Poem
For ten years the circle looped
And he knew for another ten years the circle would loop
And he knew that he would never break the circle
And he knew this was already the end.
So he kissed the face of the evening wife
As he had kissed it before in all its forms
And saw his own reflections in the note re.
And as he saw the note
he strode off, seemingly inside a clef, his signature now, his bubble of notes,
his bubble of contradicions.
And there were others surfing in this new sea of pepper and angst
inside their own bubbles,
Spinnakers before the sea.
He saw her.
She came to him like a Cirque du Soleil Soleil performer
Striding elegantly, in filigree
an idyll, inside her own bubble
while he struggled with his
And both bubbles seemed to attract each other,
almost like planets, or death,
for he feared her awesome gravity, and now also his own, for it seemed that he had flewd a death star, on moth wings,
attracted now by an even even stronger, alien light.
For this was not the familiar marriage of planets. This was a land of Pegasus,
He was afraid of this new alien. Her. For she seemed to both attract and repel. Like death.
A mindless response of fear,
reptilian, but really Pre Cambrian,
primeaval oyster's foot in his brain wanting to kick,
to kick the alien away from his consciousness,
to kick the death out of
what could could be another death star,
not the one just passed.
But he only damaged his own balloon, there was a hiss. And he seemed to be driving her away now.
And he was running out of air.
He had to rejoin.
He needed to dock.
Running out of air. Gasping for air. He needed her now
. He needed her now to even to breathe. To exist.
He now sought to guide his runaway orb towards her, hoping to penetrate, to become
one with her and live.
Arificial life. Yes.
Parasite One had landed.