White-blue

ignition

hits and it’s music

straight from the comet tail;

capilleries of night

blastfurnaced out

to splintered

streaking day.

This strangest instant

evil dancing

even for the blind –

the finesse of such a murderer

ten thousand feet high!

 

White star

nebulae

wire-strung tight

as a force can be.

Toe-balanced,

arms outstretched,

here

I am in the three a.m.:

on fire.

 

Pleading to be

the one

picked up with burning

nerves frayed

to circuitry-bare,

arrowed to the fluid

peak, electrified

vivid, screaming across

constellations.

Strict volatility

out to the infinite.

No tomorrow

but incandescent white

torture,

shrieking the inhuman

moment out,

and then –

 

flung right back

in the wet before dawn,

shaking,

empty,

barely alive,

 

the blood of stars

all over me,

like rain.

We’ve certainly had enough of it over the last couple of weeks in the UK. The night the heat broke a while back, the frequency of the lightning and thunder was greater than I think I’ve ever seen. It was close to melding into a continuous light, the dips between the flashes the exception rather than the other way round. Anyway, this poem was (of course) shaped long and thin, just like its subject. I guess the analogy is fairly obvious…I did like this one at the time, but I’m not so sure now. That ending…hmm.

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