A Poem


“Now, as we stand by the funeral vortex,” the scythe sang of

power, Neutron service resumes engraving neatly on the Warp-Drive.

War turns atoms into prayers, embalmed properly, hooded in

wormholes, teleporting graves into the ether on their collapse.

“We sing of Gods,” cried nuclei in the darkness, horsemen of the

dwarf-star approaching. Exo-planets worm their way into the

walls of the morgue.

Claimants of time-travel, rooted in the after-life but bound

by the gravity of the ferryman, voyaging through the

eternal, to star-forming light and quiet.

On my event horizon I see peace, partway through ceremony

travelling through burial, journeying to Charon.

Light, sabers, swords, beams beat below the hull,

terra-forming oceans of starlight.

hell bent on laser grave—digging

(apparently, the better ritual is lost on these souls…)

and gathering the planetary engineers to embark on

the black hole rites to escape pirates and

look through the world creation beam separating Heaven from the Universe.

A gassy religion exhumes supernova for release upon the multi-verse.

(Who, now, knows the genocide engines of Aeons…?

Hades, I presume – he buries Deicide within infinite


An engineer exterminated Styx with a space-time explosion;

hydrogen rained on God as the fates predicted. He, the matter warrior,

Maker of murder, wave-technology pilot, climbed on the anti-matter

pyramid to fight Cerberus. (I doubt he’ll be charged with manslaughter)

“He’s been stretching the holocaust, Captain.” Radiation circles turned

Satan in to a gas-giant, slaughtering the big bang with Nuclear – Fission

again, come on Satan. Annihilation in your tomb is preferred, you

can’t want to be framed for the end of the universe…?

Orbiting the Mausoleum makes me

maudlin, resolution is near the


Shrinking the Kardashev Scale to

seven might allow some lee-way

in the noose.

It’s still a monument to the asteroid of suffering.

Abandon ellipses to the weight of the Coffin Comet, no hero

exo-skeleton can save you from the firing squad.

Eclipse flowers travelling in the wake of

the lethal dimension. Home after the cremation is

the trial of a spacesuit (it isn’t air-tight, my air vacuumed.)

Mourning Orion, I traverse the star-fighter to look for an alternative

guide to the solar system.

The committal of a weapon isn’t an elevator,

It’s the entrance, (to Nimrod), of the Fermi Paradox

(we will find them) in anti-gravity.

Sadness guides the nebula crash into a fuel-cell of time to hide

the black memories of what happened before the star cluster gave

life to the separate passage of G-Force.

“Stage the take off!” he shouted valiantly at the

White-star lord, reacting to the execution of planets.

What a procession.

Moon Priests poisoned pyres at the landing of misery,

such a moody red-giant.

Vast religions crushed Dante and his demons,

and re-incarnated Cygnus X-1: Redemption? Super-massive resurrection?

Light year wide mega-structures stretch sins into the

fleet of Energy undead.

Distance, rebirth from ascension, rocket into civilisation with

Absolution Forces fighting flighty friction. Quick! Into the tombstone of


The Grim Reaper is alien in this galaxy but is the entropy

of decension into hot/cold killing of light speed.

In the beginning God created the Heavens and murdered the Earth.

surreal poetry
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Josh Barnard

I write to try and make sense of it all.  I like collage, found text and mixing that with whatever falls out of my head when I stare at the page.

See all posts by Josh Barnard