The Theory of Black Holes
The pleasure and inspiration in the book’s pages are rich. Fascist Sunlight, Shotgun Socialism and others like them awaken a sense of political vigour and anger, but the real gems lie nearer the mark of someone who has been a lifelong poet. More
Eternity is lost in the stark belief of our death,
As the night presses down on our steadily fading breath.
The hush of animation is often long and pathetic.
And it never comes with its futile anesthetic.
Discern the thrill in our voice, that whispering buzzing land,
The dream-date thought you were simply boring out of hand,
And made it with the recent daydream of events.
You caught the shout in your throat like quick-dry cement.
Eternity is the old movie, slowly slipping away from truth,
Laughing that there was ever such a thing as eternal youth.
Resolutely smothering the hope that freedom might not die,
Ripping the ramparts of liberty, when we are too old to fly.
You wake to a songbird and the pain of the lonely cynic,
Crowded streets of ambrosial need, steer you to the clinic.
Even the old dirty car is a palace compared to a coffin,
A thousand polished wine-bottles to drive you there too often.
Eternity listens for laughter ever closer to the door,
Dickers for contentment like a spendthrift in a store.
There’s no shelter to protect the myth of immortal souls,
They’re simply jewels encrusted on an infinite roof of holes.
There’s a talisman of values in the arbor countryside,
And they say that there, no righteous person ever died.
I flush with the first ideas of the vacant lots they sold,
The people who first bought them, you can bet were truly old.
Eternity is a city, whose streets are the very fields,
Of the eternal garden with their houses never sealed.
Just a little casket of paradise in which they’ll always wield,
Against the dreadful truth of oblivion, which will never yield.