(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.
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