Poetry Corona

A poem:

Twinkle twinkle, little star
You smug bastard
Just go ahead
And fucking twinkle

You are a massive ball of flaming plasma
Not little at all
And yet
Look at the sympathy you get

Twinkle. Twinkle. Little star

You're not that little
You're just far away
You're not even our star

You're not the sun

The gall
The sheer gall to twinkle

How I wonder what you are
Playing at

People build temples to the stars
People construct vast mythologies
People spend millions on telescopes and cameras

I don't even own a car
Let alone a fucking temple

This Christmas I'll be alone
Drinking the syrup from tinned pineapple rings

And you'll be sitting, twinkling, on top of a tree
In a richer person's house

Twinkle, twinkle, little star
It's always you
When will it be my time to shine?

Twinkle twinkle, little scar

***

Poetry is pretty easy. I might bring out a volume of poems whenever I need some spare cash.