Out of the blood-red cosmos of her realm,
the goddess Glitchitatta takes the helm
by conjuring imaginary creatures as her friends –
thus to distract her from the terrifying ends
to which existence in her haunted universe
appears to doom her: that its curse
from which she cannot extricate her being
must imprison her to the eternal act of seeing
that not one scintilla of a thing will last
more than a nanosecond: one swift blast –
too fast! – her least small prospect of affection
will proceed to the irrevocable dark defection
every atom must by some cruel fiat make.
She’s wielded godly astrophysics: tried to quake
a revolution in the aberrant perverse mitosis
that prevents all stuff from staying. That psychosis
finally became her fate should not surprise.
But she has so astutely managed to devise
a non-existent family of souls of such immensity
that they have generated adequate intensity
to travel through her Universe’s membrane into ours.
And this has granted us imaginative powers.
It is inarguable that we owe a debt to her, in part,
for that stark inexplicability we label “Art.”
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