Friday, August 26, 2016

Dancing Badly

He rode in on the plumy fumes of hydrocarbons –
stumble-dancing in and out of stinking gas –
the last attenuated progeny of supernova blast –
the stamp and record of the most the Cosmos
had yet ever sired: a thing with consciousness,

intention – incarnation of new ruthlessness –
a hungry self-direction which desired. He lusted
after everything: he’d take whatever he could press
to his exorbitance as wife: all the squirms of chaos,
every edgily resistant strife. His name was Life.


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