Normanton is made of dying stars

posted in: Poems | 0

Brian Cox says

everything is falling

in curves,

forever in spacetime.

 

always falling,

collapsing, expanding,

fusing

a 96 chemical everything.

 

Falling in curves

that look like orbits.

Einstein

worked it all out;

 

collapsing, like the bloke

on the steps of The Midland,

dropping

to his knees like James Brown;

 

everything slumping downwards,

with the exception of

his pint,

which stays steady as a gimbel,

 

even whilst falling

he still fights gravity,

struggling

to his feet for a fag.

 

Does anyone in The Midland

give a flying fuck about

Einstein

or his Special Theory?

 

A poet passing in a car

might see them instead,

falling

into a clichéd grave

 

and toss handfuls

of words onto the sinking

coffin.

But poets don’t know shit,

 

otherwise there’d be pubs full

of them, creating

meaning

from collapsing language,

 

words sucked inside out

by the massive force of

dying

brains, desperate to escape

 

the gravity of knowing

that even this

poem

is running out of time.

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