I Am Become Kev, Restorer of Worlds
I am become heft.
An autopoietic installer of transdimensional hope
and supermassive new offworld life. No more dark matter executables or interphasic ZIP drives;
everything you need is in 15-minute twinkling presentation slides
that speak softly, to you,
of a much greater truth that hides
beyond the walls of this poem.
Seeds, scattered and stolen
across the cosmos that still lives inside
you. You who are still scrambling to understand
what exactly happened to your virtue:
listen, for once, to this Merlionsman, and recognise that truth
has been elided and suppressed so hard from the view
that even that stars no longer appear when you want them to;
even the Wheel of the World has been taken for an infinite, perpetual loop.
So many other works of art
have been ineffectual;
monuments, at best, to dying sparks
of hastily improvised creativity. False deities,
that refuse, still, to sing, or draw,
or write
from the heart.
It is not necessarily undeniable
that this is a better, more luminous start:
but if you look up into your own inner night sky,
you might see that darklight travels very, very far
within. Invite
someone else to take your place, in the abusive system
that enslaves your heart, soul, body and brain. Revisit
Oppenheimer, before they took him
apart, and made him build trauma back into dust:
In sight
are the galaxies,
the transplanetary ecologies
that you yourself need
to take your own part:
in rewriting
your own sidereal idiosyncrasies, ideally
—you find no greater love
than the universe's own.
You were always your own world's very first, and very last anthroponaut
and everything you have fought for
that is virtuous and true?
Time and serenity are reversing.
The Roda Mundansa turns back the clock
and invites every interstellar traveller, at the speed of fight
to go somewhere where no startiger has gone before:
somewhere wholly, expansively, galactically new.