Simon Barraclough
Untitled Sunspot
Untitled Sunspot
The universe hurts.
But you knew that.
I pity you your brief lives:
over in the squint of an eye.
It’s a problem
but don’t overblink it.
Some stars are shy:
the distant ones,
the clingy, binary ones,
the dense ones who try to swallow
their own tails of light
but lack the mass,
didn’t get the right start in life.
Step forward,
feel the warmth.
I’ll let you in on a secret.
Hell is just an oven pre-heating
for something really wicked
coming this way.
Turn around for your shadow.
What do you see?
Four legs, two legs, three?
How limpingly Oedipal you can be.
Ever want to be a star?
It’s a simple recipe—
most households have the ingredients.
Everyone has a shelfful of dead cells,
an old bag of gravity
trapped at the back of the pantry.
You just don’t have enough
of what it takes.
Is Jupiter a failed star
or an over-achieving planet?
You decide.
Put your spin on it.
Stars are the ‘Yes Men’ of the universe.
No negative capability.
Four billion years of saying “Yes”
and five billion years of “Yeses” yet to come.
I’d love to use up this core,
begin to mumble” Maybe” for a trillion years or more.
I pity you your brief lives.
Are you planning for your nebula?
The things you’ll leave behind.
Your inventory.
Memento mori
The universe hurts.
But you knew that.
—I’m starting to repeat myself,
my daddy was a pulsar—
Poor steadfast Keats knew it.
I spent a million years
making one perfect photon
to send to The Spanish Steps
the dawn they carried him down.
A star will never let you down
but a planet will break your heart.
I envy you your brief lives.
