Victory is of the self.
Another threadbare exchange to leave my spirit in poverty.
Nothing I remember but the time we drifted near my planetary ego.
Planet.
You know the Greeks called it aster planetai? The star that moves.
Why be something I’m not?
It was always about me – the bloated body expelled into space.
I can be less grotesque. I can be less absolute.
I can be less dead sooner over later.
But why be something I’m not?
I am the object of my own worship, and I shall take no gods before me.
In lieu I’ll take them with me.
They the minor idols, capsuled icons, escape pods burnt in the crazy science fiction fires of atmosphere re-entry.
Everyone was all the time fleas flaked off my solar bodyship, seeking exaltation in pursuit ex nil ad nihil.
I’d apologize for my deceptions, but I’ve got a lot to learn about remorse and little time to learn it.
Horror genre, body to cosmic. Gaze you, the invited subject, upon the approaching sun from the whet of my exhausted maw.
Burn out your eyes.
Who is greater than the sun? Who can talk more than me? It's become my occupation.
Matches made with flesh and fuel wait for the final fade to white.
