A small plane rises
to the optimal altitude,
the stewardess brings coffee.
A faint crack is heard
and then it’s as if we’re sinking,
we- we feel good,
we sink into storm clouds.
The nose veers towards the ground,
we hurtle towards the explosion,
drink coffee and effuse.
Such hurtling could go on endlessly:
comfortably, with a grey rattling.
We’ve enough love already, and sympathy,
we’ve seen the pictures repeatedly,
we draft changes to the language,
so yes, why not explode.
A sexy, long and swift death
is as powerful as music.
”Do you know John Adams’s piece
A Short Ride in a Fast Machine?
It should be renamed endless.”
We smile at each other,
hand each other cups
and don’t have to think anymore
about how someone is suffering or left without god
while we plunge towards death.
The ground still drifts away before us:
if only it would last, if only.
Speed is its own and our apologia,
acceleration sustains enthusiasm.
If only it would last endlessly
explosion
endlessly
explosion
endlessly