A poem in which I ponder the justification for space exploration when we need to invest in sorting things out back on Earth. One of those ‘controversial’ opinions I try to express poetically but end up offending people.
Unravelling the Universe?
Its like a confluance of indignation,
the way the stems of the universe fly
by, like nebulaic moths fluttering around
a bright light on a remote pathway in some
obscure part of a provencial area
of some small country,
on some continent.
It was created,
it wasn’t random
it wasnt created
Where does the creation start and the disorder stop?
Where does the mandibles of human speculation
lose their sharpness and become interdimensional dreams?
Like a teabag in a blender.
Like a Wilderbeast in a 100 metre sprint.
Like a Stephen Seagal movie that actually,
Many universes, many decisions many answers.
Chaos flutters, like a butterfly but it has no effect
on the cosmos apart
from what can be
described in the world of equations and algebraic
numbers and quantum
formulae that make you wonder,
Here is existance, isn’t it nice?
Do we care?
Here is the world, lets fuck it up and ruin it, aren’t we clever?
Do we care?
How do you make water out of oil?
How do you make food out of bank notes?
How do you make medicine out of radio waves?
How has space research changed our lives?
Cling Film. Lots of fucking Cling Film.