In March of 2016, a few months before a storm of depression clouded up my brain with anxiety, I wrote a collection of poems called “Our Universe is Dead.”
Writing this collection was entertaining, to say the least. It was like taking unkempt, jagged nails and dragging them down a chalkboard pinned up to the back of my mind. The dust I collected under my nails I would use to build a piñata filled with all of the cheap candy grannies would buy for their candy jars but no one would really eat. Then I would metaphorically beat the shit out if it, and where ever the spunky funky junk landed on the floor, I would turn into poems. I just really like going overboard with tacky and unusual parallels that make people go what the fuck?
Between the lines of whimsical garbage in the poems is where you can find the matches to light them up and make bonfires out of them. You can sit around them, sing, or just think, what is she really trying to say, if anything at all?
Well, you hear it from me, first! I was saying all kinds of things — but mostly a stream of unending questions about how the universe ties into my existence. Every step I take? Where do they lead me in the cosmos? What is math, really? How can I pinpoint reality within qualia, when no words I toss out into the universe can validate or invalidate that others experience events and sensations the same way as I do? Will I ever be able to think outside of the concept of time? Does everything have to be chronological, on a linear path with beginnings and endings? What if we are just some fucked up binary code? And when some being somewhere zooms out of Google Universe, all of the galactic objects form the big fat word “ERROR” across their screen?
… This is the kind of stuff that I live for. The universe our planet seems to just float and chill out in both captivates my mind and haunts my soul down to it’s unexplainable murky core (that I spend way too much time filling up with caffeinated drinks, if I’m really honest with you all).
Anyway, if I want you to take anything away from my Our Universe is Dead poetry compilation, it’s the following:
- Our universe isn’t dead because the universe is outside of our understanding of life and death since it doesn’t abide by our understanding of time.
- My tacky and over-the-top metaphors and imagery are quite possibly only entertaining to myself but I hope they spark your interest to churn out something just as strange and uniquely you about whatever subject captures your fancy.
- I want you to walk away thinking about all of these questions that often poke and prod at my mind about the universe.
- It would be fucking hilarious if Neptune really did pull down her top to expose her tits.
As always, thank you for dropping by and reading.
You can find all nine poems in the compilation by visiting the category tag Our Universe is Dead on the main page of my journal or the comments sections of this entry.
9 replies ›
- When the cosmic floor eats my soul | tinyfawns
- Ugly Duckling Supernova | tinyfawns
- Welcome to your existential hell | tinyfawns
- BRB, going to the galactic supermarket | tinyfawns
- I might be | tinyfawns
- Rehab with planets and star pills | tinyfawns
- Dumplings | tinyfawns
- Ruggedly Handsome | tinyfawns
- Canon ballin’, planets at the high school dance | tinyfawns