Milky way around me
stars, sun, planets, the moon
interstellar, interplanetary
orbits, i commune

The heavens surround me
galaxies, constellations, nebulae
across my cosmic journey
for revolutions i'll stay

The cosmos envelope me
dark stars, black holes, supernova
flames in my tail I see
celestial brightness of my strata

Heavenly bodies you and me
falling star, giant star, dwarf star
my love is quasar-like energy
a bolide of us is not far

Astronomical intensity
alpha centauri,sirius, achernar
encompasses their enormity
unlike pulsars, we are shooting stars

The farthest man made object in space, Voyager 1,
is over 20 billion km away from Earth.
On board is a phonograph record, brilliant gold,
containing sounds and images of what life is like on earth,
A message to whoever is able to listen, a literal shot in the dark.
On it is an inscription that is perhaps the most beautiful sentence
I have ever read
TO THE MAKERS OF MUSIC
ALL TIMES
ALL WORLDS
a time capsule, a gift, from us
To anywhere and everywhere
A hundred years from now or a thousand
Our belief that no matter what time
Or world you belong to, melody and harmony and rhythm, can bring us together, can communicate.
On the cover
Are figures, explaining how to operate this record
Hieroglyphics from what by then
Would be ancient history
Messages in binary, the 1s and 0s
Our position in the universe marked by our distances
from gigantic pulsars, the star map to our home,
the creators of this message
There's beauty in this marriage of math and art
Code and music
As a way to communicate with the universe.
Some of the images on the record are
the most beautifully simple ones,
Of us, humans, drinking and eating, laughing,
of animals, nature, food and architecture.
Then there are images of our scientific observations,
mathematical calculations, our discoveries,
Like a child showing off
Look, look what I can do!
Black and white and in colour,
Pictures, proof that we, indeed have lived and achieved.
The music, classical, our very best from Bach and Mozart
to Blind Willie Johnson's Dark was the Night.
But all of this can only matter, can come to fruition
if someone exists to receive it, and is evolved enough
to comprehend what it means.
But that's the thing, everybody knows,
That's there's a slim chance of this record ever being heard,
and it's much more possible that the Voyager will simply end up as floating debris in the cosmos, but it doesn't matter!
We just want someone to know that there was a species of bipedal, intelligent animals on this blue planet,
no different than finding graffiti in alleys that read I WAS HERE.
WE WERE HERE, WE EXISTED.  
And it's all about that hope, the hope that someone will see us,
our pictures, listen to our languages, our greetings, our music, and remember us, even after we're long gone.
Or perhaps we will one day be interstellar space faring people as well, following the path of the Voyager, doing what we do best,
Explore.

Somewhere in the South Pacific
a human-shaped speck casts a bottle
from the shore of a tiny island
into the interminable sea.
The bottle contains a note
which bears:
a name
an approximate location
and a desperate plea.

The bottle drifts slowly away
flashing in and out of view
on the crests of passing swells.
It glides on mysterious currents
and a quiet modicum of hope.

Simultaneously,
Above a particular point in the Northern Hemisphere,
a ball of tin foil
labeled Voyager I
is crossing the threshold
into the world outside
the solar system.

On board are a pair of golden discs
engraved with:
images and voices of human beings
the relative location of the Sun to fourteen nearby pulsars
and a plea,
      naively disguised to look like a proud declaration of identity
                             but what proud and accomplished
                                       race of beings
                         would need to search for
                                 companionship
                            among the stars?

                         The little metal ball floats away
                                        blinking bits of data back to Earth
                                                              each grainier than
                                                                 the last

                                     tugged by the gravity of distant bodies
                                                               and a quiet modicum of
                                                              ­                                  hope.

Nothingness.
Imagine nothingness.
That nothingness which is nothing of the nothingness we are all familiar with:
Not that nothingness which is nothing but empty space and time
Like when you open an empty room.
No.
That nothingness where nothing truly exists:
Not space,
Not even time.

A singular point.
Imagine a singular point.
The ultimate singular point that contains all possible points
In the development of the universe
Come out and expand
From the birthing of time, the instance of The Big Bang,
(Which by the way is not a large explosion, as the words imply, but a silent rapid expansion)
Pushing the envelope
Where nothingness begins.

Chance.
Imagine chance.
The random occurrence of events:
Of fundamental particles colliding and uniting
Or annihilating each other,
Giving rise to protons, neutrons and electrons;
Giving rise to the periodic table,
To compounds, both organic and inorganic,
To macromolecules.

Billions of years.
Imagine billions of years
Gone by,
And billions of galaxies filling the sky:
Stars and quasars and pulsars
Planets and comets and meteors
***** nilly hurtling through
Dark matter and ever expanding space,
Yet inanimate still
,
A single cell.
Imagine a single cell
Form inexplicably so,
In a staggeringly highly improbable way
As carbon molecules combine,
Start to throb and pulsate:
Chance bringing forth life
In a barren and otherwise
Lifeless universe.

Consciousness
Imagine consciousness
Purposive, willful, deliberate

Feelings
Imagine feelings
Love, compassion, hatred

Imagine all in a universe that came out of itself from nothingness.

It is hard, of course,
For after all, we are creatures of somethingness!

But at this point
You must have seen the Point
Of all the ramblings and turns in the trajectory of my thought
Tracing the evolutionary course of the universe
From nothingness and that singular point
That without God
All things are
After all
Pointless!
.
And so,
Let us not deplore, as a great poet once did,
That this world “so various, so beautiful, so new
Hath no joy, nor love, nor light
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain…”
For what else should we expect
Of a cold, unfeeling universe?

What?
Give us some Novocain?

I gave away my heartbeats to a black dark night
sculpted a stone into a new heart
with each daily news break hanging from my dreams
like silk shrouds for all the dead of just one day on Earth
while the night unfolded her mystery
and my heartbeats were pulsars in a distance too great to travel
while my stone heart was stoic and hardened to grief
I make paper flowers , now, out of black crape, for all those about to enter the land of the dead.

I make my home in the heart of stars
Pulled in by their massive gravity
Fiery furnace burning the core of me
Skin incinerated in a fury of white orange
Quasars spewing my light filled essence
Out in either direction
Pulsars spinning like a lighthouse
Beckoning what’s left of me
Until the black holes gobble up
What remains of my scattered particles

Galactic curls in spirals swirl, entwining twisted mystery,
where time unrolls in blackened holes, no longer bright and blistery,
but writ like runes on starry dunes enclosed in cosmic history

Galactic dust, from novas' gusts, congesting empty spaces
once fatefully flung beyond the tongue of burnt out astral traces,
may recompress and coalesce in distant times and places

Galactic dwarves, like ancient wharves with silent planets mooring  
yet still in spin though long done in, hide flares no longer soaring -
magnetic webs of eons ebb, in thermal fusion roaring

Galactic tides warp space divides, call forth sublime creation
while bending clocks in rippled shocks, unfolding time dilation
that seems to crown the flowing gown of pulsars' pulsed gyration

Galactic stew, a seething brew, midst background noise and chatter
like Chaos reigns, the sole remains of missing antimatter,
with just a trace to form a space-time, curved or somewhat flatter

Galactic glue holds something new: dark energy and matter
that interacts and counteracts the ancient Big Bang splatter:
a cosmic soup of strings and loops, a universal batter

Galactic life's replete and rife 'neath lactic milky wafer,
though solar gales leave unseen trails of cosmic rays, the strafer;
but nonetheless, one must confess, it seems there's nowhere safer

the wrong atmospherics of transmission
move in uninvestigated chaotic archives
red and pink turbulent storms swarm across
deep space frequencies in imaginative
currents of pulsars
that are translated into phases
each represented in diverse
conflicting modes of expression
in obsessive grooves of consciousness
cut up components of recycled narratives
audibly fixating on vibrations
that sound across the universe
in diffused spirals of manic fluctuations
converting archaic symbols into equivalents
of dust surfaces that oxidise in intermittent epochs
and deposit a rediscovered earth
an expansive transferable construction
of accidental providence
that allows for expression in artificially generated realities
hallucinated images that float
across the consciousness of the cosmos
producing visions that punctuate rational thought
become preoccupied with the conception
of  interplanetary transpeciation
counting the chronological diversity
of those that occupy the black, blank
vacuum of space

the language of light fills the sky once more
comes down to share our table
- life pulsating from out the Earth
clear clean water.
We eat our bread and drink our wine
while the Sun shines on all we do.
the language of light throughout the Universe
- crackling stars
our hearts pulsars
love a river, an ocean wide
dive on in, in reckless abandon.

Once the levers are pulled down
squealing and removing themselves from silence,
once we become noisy
and our baritones are barges
across rivers that separate us,
once you become the Rock of Gibraltar
and I can point my nose at you in the fog
to gauge not only distance,
but time as well,
then I think
it will resume.

But as the night holds your tongue
on its own tongue, moving you around
inside its mouth in a *** of dense
violet clouds, as so many cities burn in the sky,
I will never hear a thing.

I will only see
your eyes running the gauntlet
of a dense violet night and its violence
of lighthouses revolving quicker than pulsars,
increasing the walls of space.

They scream in the void
for some empty barge and its horn
of compassion.

I just want to be
a Duke of a Universe
is this too much to ask?
I could use
The Black Hole as a pool pocket
and the planets as pool-*****
and declare you
Vice Duke inspecting graffiti
on planet restroom walls,
and you report to me
those words of wisdom
of Plato, Nietzsche, Kilroy and cornbread...

I just want to watch
comets streek across
the heavens
and watch tiny pulsars blink minute rotations,
and newly created stars explode
and belch their heavenly gases
And see masses and masses
of nebulae
stretching outward
like blowy-toy-pinwheels
And I'll take the " Big Dipped"
and dip it in the " Milky Way"
while playing marbles
with tiny asteroids
And use the heavens as my
painter's canvas
and splash on newly Constellations
And use the many Suns
to warm my chilly hands,
The return from farthermost
planets of Sunless Lands

Oh my BOSS!!
I'm getting too serious
as you can easily see
And why worry?
Because I'm already
a Duke of a Universe,
The talk of the playground campus
The talk among every prominent
Neo-Freudian and Neo-Skinnerian
The talk about my wisdom writings
found near almost flushing toilet
at "QUACKSVILLE UNIVERSAL UNIVERSITY"
Here come the med cart
Here come the med cart

That's all folks

We fall hunting for laurels,
shredding

       our purple bruises
       into rose hips.

Our silversmith rings lose their fingers,
cracked irreparable.

       Our lives of lavish luxury
       lives as lapis lazuli.

The banks of the Ipswich
call out:

       silhouettes behind birch bark.
       Remember

how we used to swim
her waters;

       tread her auric ebb?
       We aim at deer, at ripening

persimmons. They chew
the fruit pretty.

       We aim at killdeer.
       Kiss a wasp.

We were dead fireworks
under Laniakea eyes.

       As midnight, we are
       films noir:

we imagine *******
Lauren Bacall from behind,

       speaking and kissing in tongues,
       her mouth tasting

of unfiltered smoke,
breathing the snow

       melting
       down her rose hips.

We stuff the stuff of nightmares
into a cardboard box.

       We howl at solar winds and polar vortexes.
       We are a vesica; both/and.

We fall hunting for laurels,
adolescent pulsars with persimmon eyes.

The stars are leaving again..
Pulsars stop spinning..
Forgotten light seen again..

They were already gone..
Pulsars start spinning..
Remembered light was never gone..

Dream nebulas mix together..
Mind paint brush of the cosmos..
Colors of my soul shine together..

Portrait of distant thoughts..
Mind paint brush strokes..
Are the memories of light and your beautiful thoughts..

I'll see you again...
You were never gone..
Because you are still in my thoughts..

Load your ***** clothes. Separate your colors from your whites. Try not to linger too long on the shirt you first met him in.

2. Add detergent, only half a cup. Fill with cold water, watch as cerulean galaxies form right before your eyes. Realize just how much of you is not you.

3. Fill with warm water. Start spin cycle. Press your ear against the machine, hear its prehistoric roar rumble through your bones(now your shakes have excuses)have it envelope your senses until you assimilate into history and star stuff.

4. Jump when the buzzer goes off. Brush yourself off and hastily transfer loads into the dryer. Persevere when the wet clothes weigh down your arms more than thoughts of him, of his smile, of his laugh(****)

5. Set the dry cycle for another hour. Try not to think about your homework, remember that he's in your chemistry class, bite your head off. Sit on the dryer, close your eyes, pretend you're on a space ship shuttling through the atmosphere, through the Earth's orbit, on your way to the moon or Venus(****, you think of him again)or Pluto. Salsa on Saturn's rings, fall through Jupiter, turn stars into sticker on your skin, add pulsars, neutron stars, and quasars to your scrapbook(even if you don't scrapbook)

6. Return to Earth when the dryer shouts beneath you. Fold your shirts. Try not to think about the way his cheeks and face folds how he buckles over when he laughs, or how you did that first when that stupid statistic about how people like to mimic the habits of their love interest(***** science, if i can't explain my feelings, neither can it)comes to mind. Don't even look at that ******* shirt, toss it to the back of your dresser. Tuck sleeves left over right. Shove away thoughts of tucking stray tendrils of hair behind his ears, the feeling of his soft hair beneath your fingertips, how he cradled himself into your arms when he gets embarrassed.

7. Hang up your dad's formal shirts, your brother's tank tops, your mom's blouses. Blane your fatigue on the time of day rather than your depressive disorder. Blame your depressive disorder on your tendency to box yourself in and hold your own head underwater and struggle to breathe.

8. Accidentally close your eyes too long but just long enough for your mind to project  slideshow presentation of him standing off to the side, lingering for someone you wish was you (but it'll never be you, you know this like you know how two opposite symmetrical particles annihilate each other upon impact, a fatal encounter)

9. Throw back the tearstained shirts, socks, and boxers into the dryer. Set for twenty minutes. Almost forget to change the lint filter.

10. Stand there, numb and wet-faced, as the machine rocks, focus on the shaking of the tumbles to remember where you are, who you are.

11. Realize how often you lie to yourself(it doesn't take a genius to recognize a pattern)(remember Matt, Jamie, Julia; all fatal encounters, the stray neutrons in your equilibrium)Realize this is self-destruction. You are matter searching for antimatter, the particle searching for your antiparticle. You love the pattern(you're a routine-loving virgo, after all; you live for periodic patterns)love the cycles like the seasons. Like Persephone taking summer and spring with her every year, you are both Hades and Demeter. Cherishing new companionship, mourning the loss of your heart and soul.

12. He is the bull, you tell yourself, and bulls trample. Bulls stomp and wreck and dance and fly, but bulls are wild and untamable. Bulls don't belong with China-shop girls with scorched tongues and thumbs and an affinity for loving supernovas and jackhammers.

spilled blood
in galaxies made of tears,
candles that blow
dark photons in my chest,
my brain that emits ideas
with pulsars in cosmos
and the hot of the sun
turns into a neutron star,
who is carrying me
into a confusing geodesic road
and this road...
are just coordinates
into wormholes
that provides me the possibility
to travel into parallels worlds
in the fourth dimensions
of my complicated mind
lighting spectrums
of information into my empty heart
who was a black hole for long time
but now
that I find you
this black hole
it's turning again
into a beautiful star

#poetry #dreamingforawhile #imagination

Your eyes are not portals to your soul
They are not some archaic metaphysical equation
Ancient mathematicians formulated to confound

They are pastures for nymphs
They are branches for fruit
They are laurels for poets

They rend me open like a flaming axe
They tie my stomach like knotted roots
I lose myself in their dusky wilderness

In them, I observe universes
Perpetually exploding and collapsing
Your pupils are black holes
At the center of galaxies
Balancing energy and force
Bending light inward

Like a sickle glistening high over hayfields

In them I hear songs
And sagas narrated by savage tongues
Of catastrophic floods and rebirth
Aryan myths about oneness

In them I see IVs dripping
Candles flickering behind carved pumpkins

I loiter in them like a pauper
With a styrofoam cup

Gazing on them is nearly intolerable
Like glaring at hydrogen bombs blinding

It is like Hebrews
Uttering the name of El- who cannot be named
El- who is above mortal matrices

The eye that never sleeps
The ear that always comprehends
The self that waivers like the sea

Eternity ends when you blink
Infernos extinguish when you sob

I tremble before them
As if they're holy relics
Decaying into perfection

Oh look upon me one last time
My love

Oh glance at me before
I petrify into pillars of salt

Look upon me
Before I transfigure into an amnestic god
Bearing light pure

Peer once more into my binary pulsars, frozen
In a fathomless abyss.

We are star stuff recycled over and over again.
You are a reflection and an injection
of all the stars, cosmic junk, and other stuff
that cluttered space. Your pale face
wears billions of years of history.
Your eyes that watch the heavens
were once that which burnt the brightest
in the heavens.
Your heart pulses like the particles in pulsars,
which now constitute the core of your being

So, when we die, when the sun collapses
and all our mass is ****** in and spewed out,
I hope my particles play with yours.
I hope our atoms give birth to a new universe.
Let our being be together in purple clouds
that cross the cosmos singing song of static
in infinity
swirling in a universal dance.
Let me orbit you as my heart is want to do;
Even, if your molecules would rather
orbit another.

The pulsars flash in space.
Hydrogen bombs explode
Sending waves to warm my face
Light to make the day
An unintended consequence
A thought of hope and beauty
Warmth on my skin
Sparkling pools
Reflect old memories
Who I was
Is not who I am
And I can always be better
A seeker swimming
Barely floating
Almost drowning
Always getting wetter
Stuck in the thick of quick thoughts
Rising faster than ocean tides
Dancing on the edge of death
Barely a breaths distance away from
Insight or despair
Today I am alive
I am alive
I am alive
******* it is great
To be alive

dream of boys and sycamore trees
you are every tree broken window pane shooting star crash landing like UFO sighting you are scars and tears in bed sheets like mutilated painting
melodramatic alchemical reactions friction between legs and the toes
heart chakras bending inbetween our spinal bones coffee drips from our lips decaf because we are sleeping and dreaming in each other's holy water tears and the little house of fire we built under the full moon after you failed out of architecture school we were children forgetting how to swim because we test drove people thinking that was love

Now you're seeing foxes and I'm seeing
roadkill calling this spiritual
Sensual exploring of the record and we are the players scratching each other on repeat trying to find meaning in life, in heavy breathing ourselves inside out
not looking in mirrors because we finally see ourselves

You are dancing cubes I dance like the moon gave birth to the Sun
binary staring at each other till we collide and and it scares us because because you are the One
Zero divided by infinty you Fibonacci sequence connecting the patterns of human and ***
we are so microchip trying to logic our way how to love system overload not failure

Sirius A Sirius B
You Orion me in crecent pulsars of ******* like backwards slow motion of looking through a telescope and fighting orbit disorientation of the world spinning us together like the cermaics class you took in college like lost love remembering itself

We smoke each other's cigarettes
Hoping to protect the other's lungs and wearing sunscreen trying to protect our sensitive skin as we melt like candles at each other's touch
This is a love story born on the ripples of skipping stones as we skipped all other lifetimes to fall into lips laced with kindness
The kind that hurts

I push your back against a tree as river heartbeat races below with cold hands and white sycamore staring across like white buffalo we are reborn as the chipmunk chirps, false bird

As the sun lingers like words we have yet to say like tiny convict not daring to escape the teeth cell of our own body because mind says no like bad dog
No early Christmas gift unwrapping each other with the lingering words in the shallow doorway of our our mouths
We are just becoming bilingual
Soon to be fluent in each other and know each freckle constellation and cell plastered on the graph of your skin your scars
are cracks in the wall that let me see into the rooms of you
and i trace the x,y, &z; axis of your body it blooms into muscle memory  
One midnight I'll meet your soul
I hope the stars are sleeping so that's all I'll see and I'll go blind in the light that permeates your eyes
But I'll read those freckle Constellations of your body like braille
Blind but happy

Perhaps the truly 'alien' things out there isn't other life.
Its the planets and pulsars, the nebulae and all other matter.
They are massive,  incomprehensibly distant and incomprehensibly old.
Totally indiffernt to us, they will be there long after we're all gone and have there been long before.

A feeling of the pulse, the flow of the galactic.
Energy in the veins to a core of white static.
Pulsars in the eyes, a ruby soul on fire.
An ascent through the seven and the gates
to the designer.

I can warm you like a
cup of tea on a winter's day,
I can chill you like a
winter in the U.K.
I can lift you up and
send you reaching for the stars
or I can make you feel
the weight of a thousand pulsars.
I am the worst feeling in this paradigm,
while, at the same time,
I am the best feeling you can conjure;
I am nostalgia.

It started with an S. Humbly mumbling yes no maybe i dont know oh **** vertigo should i let go. my brain was blasted, a cocktail of chemicals and superfluidious ether. The push pull ying yang fung shui grabs the heat seeking missle and grabs the brain, attracts sychronized vertacies but the magnitism flips as imaginary consequence givesway to repulsion of the imaginary sense. Pulsars pulsating sending shock waves through space time highways a terrible silence is heard then music then woah. Gravity wells staring me down warping and warming WARNING particle collision is immenent a stellar nurersy might be born of this hyperspace supernova scintilating energies might synchronize for the bonding of bodies creating a binary star system carefully dancing and explosivly romancing or it could be too much the system overloads entropy wins hot matter turned cold a black hole is formed.

Complicated intracacies to be sure. I think a caphonany was born if only i could phrophasize and figure out where my head flipped out and if there would be any imminent fallout. Wise to withhold or a missed chance to experience an amazing incredible moment where time and space may have seperated and two bodies joined in between the seams. Just amazing.

whether colliding as fast as particles smashing together for man's curiosity
or moving only as slow as the divisions of the most inactive mitotic cells
while there are stars at your fingertips
and entire galaxies dotting the vacuum of space that separate us
does anything even matter?

looking elsewhere for answers becomes futile
when there's only one certain truth:
the steady beat of life in the unpredictable environment of our universe
wouldn't exist if it didn't matter

anti matter dark matter dark energy matter
red giants white dwarves black holes pulsars
nebulas stars star systems galaxies universes dimensions
our heavens our earth our moon our sky you and i
all matter.
all.
matter.

Audible unspoken soliloquies
wandering from room to room
Resonation in minor scale oddities
Color the gathering gloom

For I know not from whence they come
Music from my soul
These keys which I’ve always succumb
not from reluctance are they extolled.

For it is the music of the universe
that continually rewinds itself
in light years across the steely perverse
from some interstellar shelf

Rhythm from some random pulsars
in galactic syncopation
in quantum entanglement these stars
this meter by synchrotron radiation

Beamed into me and I know not why
Sometimes I can feel it
Sometime its grace makes me cry
But most of all it will permit

Me to see the purity within it
and the beauty in all things
for it is never-ending and will not quit
this music in my own cosmic strings

I thank God for this celestial download
I am a better human because of it
Am I worthy of this honor bestowed?
I will not question His wisdom forthwith

Parts of it because I am a musician
and the other parts of astronomers
these two in the synergy of fission
of notes, telescopes and binoculars

So if you visit my house and hear strange melodies
playing in the back of your minds
it’s the music of the spheres strange soliloquies
within your minds beginning to sublime.

Dave Proffitt
8/11/2016
6:03 PM

I think, therefore I may be.

Maybe I think too much to be free

But the walls close faster than a revolving door
Where no man will etch my name in precious floor

Lost to the inevitable human trace
A dream actuated to another time and place

My eternal atomic informative electrostatic attraction
Bounces my life across the pulsars
in altercation
And ionizes my dreams within
this distant universe,
To return to dream and inert

Inani, Intelli, Invinci,

Omni, Alli, Tectoni,

Read the pages on the stone
Sing the whispers in the growth
The dance of time, the hand of space
the love of design, a perfect trace

Sing sing.
as loud as you can
Do not get lost in the yaup of man.

There is a special soul inside of you.
It's the trees, the bees, the seas and due

Time will come for us to know
The world will task our souls for new growth

And when our time should come to pass
I let myself dance in Dodecahedral sky

And let my atoms shine

For new eyes.

It started with an S. Humbly mumbling yes no maybe i dont know oh **** vertigo should i let go. my brain was blasted, a cocktail of chemicals and superfluidious ether. The push pull ying yang fung shui grabs the heat seeking missle and grabs the brain, attracts sychronized vertacies but the magnitism flips as imaginary consequence givesway to repulsion of the imaginary sense. Pulsars pulsating sending shock waves through space time highways a terrible silence is heard then music then woah. Gravity wells staring me down warping and warming WARNING particle collision is immenent a stellar nurersy might be born of this hyperspace supernova scintiling energies might synchronize for the bonding of bodies creating a binary star system carefully dancing and explosivly romancing or it could be too much the system overloads entropy wins hot matter turned cold a black hole is formed.

Complicated intracacies to be sure. I think a caphonany was born if only i could phrophasize and figure out where my head flipped out and if there would be any immient fallout. Wise to withhold or a missed chance to experience an amazing incredible moment where time and space may have seperated and two bodies joined in between the seams. Just amazing.

Party on the moon
In the sunlight strobe
The stars are dancing a trillion grooves

Pulsars and quasors

          Galactic dudes
        Supernova girls

On the blackhole dance floor

       Starlights and planet kites
Flying in the universe's height
               They're aint no fights
                                           Here
  Just bodies crushing
Rotating and blushing
                       Energies

All this magnetic
Gravitational static
    Arcing electricity

There's a party on the moon
     Why are you still on earth

Come join this galaxy
    In a loving allegory

Take the next rocket
To moons eye socket
The party had already started

                    And it never ends
                                      Always

AFFIRMATION PRIOR  MENU RAILLERY
/    The Verge Galore  Feminedarlen Ogitres
Utterance ET. . CRAFT LUMINAT LINEAR

Visonettia  distribution rejoining  the holy mundale  ringingly  poemmatic Syndneys beyond the unexplainably  ‘explicit throll’ illium diocesan –of vegetarian et. Province womanhood crayfish the clairvo humanity pluralists –the eye read furrowing immortal ribs-of purer fate gummnation  
The unfathomable classification dogma  vertex   fascillinary the ***-earthen vessels
COUCH BEATITUDESS
ET. Isle Ironing  Stooffly-fye Stirringlys Wikilipaedia  Witchcraft Paypraises-Often Therein The Illumantherapist  Preaching  Echo Signs :
1. Soilage Requll A utum
2. Crankshaft Purrings
3. Mount Zion Poles
4. Carmel Million Rail-of Sailors
5. Armoury  Shed Mid-Wifeory
6. Geovum ‘God Issuantry
7. Re-missionaries Order Clergy Illures/ Pelvic Eleventh Yonderics
8. Darner ARC/Kiosk Kilometer Confluence
9. Visonettia  Agegy ageeeing spades
1o. Brook Rainbow
10. Thyma Across Fountain Figures 360  Vignettes
11. TUC-aLVACADO
12. Prolette: Provincial Program Cohesion seus
13. Uni-EXCUSSION SQUIRRELLS; Fuel Eleganza Ocres
14.Oracle Barbcock Peanuts
15. Barbwire Shielz  ‘poem Prostulatheises
16. Pilgrimage Consummates
17. Core stalf Trivoltry  believing the ‘eagles bounds
18.Unfalteruing pulsars Pose fulcrum /Composaltry the furthering
19. Indulgenergy Scencegy the Thretshold //Indisputable  CO-exoisthergy  Instantaneously CO-GENESIS
2O. Sovereignty Stomata: Outstand Coupon Versatility % TRINITY/ flying Ukrainegy the Trinity Adores-OREGY
http// ***** ODU-DOLLAR SHADES.COM

Have you met your cousin
Betelguese?
She said Hi, the way stars do
Bearing brightly burning light

What about the pulsars
Spinning ballerinas
Of the far end of space?
They're your cousins too

Saturn would like to chat
With you
Missing your warm hug
He tries to hug himself

Yes they are all our relatives
Didn't you know
We are all sons of the deathless
Isn't it nice to be so?