Saturday, 30 May 2015

(SATIRE) A transmission from Gamasutra HQ to Leigh Alexander: Lone inhabitant of Offworld Starbase Alpha (A poem by backwards7 - aged 9)

Ground control to Leighka.

You who followed your
Soviet namesake into ascension.

Take your salt tablets and put your helmet on.

The President of Earth
can't come to the phone right now
but wishes to inform you by proxy
that you are performing important work
simply by being in outer space
thousands of miles
removed from the Terra firma
with no practical method of return.

The words that you funnel
into the megaphone
forever poised at your lips
will die unheard in the vacuum.
They will not stir the tides
where once they made waves.

Your gaping mouth
is a black hole 
from which no
information escapes,
as you go about
your appointed task
of cataloguing all
the CIS white stars
in the heavens,
where they twinkle
with audacious privilege.

In moments of silent reflection,
that arrive with the frequency
of Halley's Comet,
you attempt to distil
a decent vodka from the replica
dilithium crystals signed by Will Wheaton
that were given to you
on your departure.

In orbit, there is no brandy, Alexander.

The sponsors who
propelled your fiery ascent
withdrew their funding
from the space program
before the smoke
on the launch pad had cleared.

You now remain
securely anchored
to the firmament,
an entitled constellation
muscling your way
into the zodiac,
broadcasting predictions
of dubious merit.

No comments:

Post a Comment