I’m an intergalactic balladeer.
Singing shanties for gelatinous monsters, crying
Over the bowdlerization of abandoned space shuttles.
So many preceptors, their arachnoids hanging out like ripe fruit,
Whose delicate membranes once enclosed spinal cords, brains, undeveloped
Viscera awash in stargazing captains’ pipe dottle, routed from conflict.
Retreat’s become sexier than Fibonacci series poetry, truncated finals or encroaching
Territories where, even unwittingly, social alluvium’s allowed;
Seeding one’s self in such systems makes orators’ agitprop famous.
Where we see blood, audiences merely evidence aggravated cases of tonsillitis.
That’s okay; runty aliens, possessed of menial market mendacities, gills, fins,
Plus other useful parts shrive their respiration fatigue upon us bipeds.
In balance, our quisling experiences yield famous moral skirmishes.
Low content, high drama’s what brings sell outs. Slavery, worse tortures constitute
Fun and games for payday squads of andouille-hankering reptiles.
Their future’s a precious caper-type berry of sun-starved gorse.
Some species can’t know the ennui of kind deeds, reliable agreements or permanent
Mates. They remain on empty vestas, those protoplanet denizens devoid of pleasure.
Such masses, however, are more gratifying than cosmos construed of bulbs,
Flashes, solar capucines, deep rubies, bright feathers.
Accordingly, I snooze in my cockpit, electronic pen ready.
