Vogon Poetry

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I am by no means a poet. When it comes to writing, I feel much, much more confident with prose. But I do still get the urge to write poetry from time to time. And if I have to suffer through editing it (and realizing all the reasons why I am most definitely not a poet), I think it’s only fair that you should suffer through reading it. Aren’t I just the sweetest? 

So, without any further ado, I will be sharing three specimens with you today. 

Obliteration

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We are the fantasies that we dream for ourselves

So we can sleep in peace.

But we are old,

You and I,

So old we cannot dream of newer, brighter dawns

Or sunsets that kiss the ocean with orange sadness.

We are the lavender ending of the world

Because we have seen too much and yet

We have survived.

Or did we? 

Tell me—

Is this state of being the existence where we stand on rooftops

And remind the stars of our beating hearts

Or is this the survival of the damned, 

Sitting in wheelchairs, hands covered in age spots

Faces lined, hearts miserable, minds blank? 

Tell me—

Did we survive or did we fade

Like two collapsed balloons

Drifting towards the ocean’s realm

Daily seeking consolation in the deep? 

Final Frontier

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Words in my bloodstream

Sedate me for a time

And I can smile by halves

Like the moon eclipsing or being eclipsed.

I can’t recall whether your light is leaving

Or returning—

Whether you are coming

Or going.

I only remember to breathe sometimes, 

When you are not looking

And I can have peace

From the weight of your soul understanding my soul

And what it is to be me,

To taste language and dance with strangers in my head

And then remember that I am chained here

While you are flying high like a balloon en route to the sun

Leaving a child crying out the memory of its happiness.

Me remembering you

Pumps salt through my veins—

You slow my heart and make me thoughtful

Like Van Gogh contemplating the stars.

You are my stars and I am your star gazer

Admiring you forever

Never grasping that you are more than just 

Light and burning gas ignited ages before. 

You are hope and sadness and mystery

Like the distance between my eye and Aldebaran 

And the breath of God. 

You are my final frontier. 

Nightmare

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I know you are not dead

Because if you were I am sure my heart would stop beating—

Would stop pumping blood

And working and feeling. 

But I am alive 

So you must be alive—at least I tell myself. 

Wouldn’t living in your absence be betrayal? 

Wouldn’t my pulse be guilty

Pounding, while yours is still? 

Wouldn’t it be sacrilege

To live when you are dead?

Are you dead? 

Are you truly gone, or is this a nightmare

From an addled mind, a product of worry

And caffeine? 

Is this coffee killing me, 

Or merely numbing? 

Breathing, fading, dying—I cannot tell the difference. 

Am I living, or am I the one who has moved on

Into beyondness and light? 

Did I leave you, 

Or did you leave me?

I think I'm drifting,

So I know you must be gone,

Because I think I would be smiling

And I think my limbs would feel the sunlight

If you were here to warm the world. 

So then—

You are gone

And I was wrong. 

If any of you are still wondering what Vogon poetry is, now you know. 

Also, in case you were hoping to read well-written poetry, fear not. In a few weeks I will be sharing with you some of my sister’s work, and I can assure you, it is equal parts touching and beautiful. Hopefully it will make up for the trauma you have suffered today. 

There you have it, my little coffee beans. What about you—do you write poetry? Have you read THE HITCHHIKER’S GUIDE TO THE GALAXY? Will you be suing me for the physical and psychological damage sustained in reading my poetry?