The Eris Theory
The
dial tone drones. Drones. Drones.
The
train sends comets up to the sky
as
it shrieks and squeals on the tracks.
My
breath shudders. I count.
Nine-hundred
and ninety nine pixels of
sun.
Caught in the corners of ghost rooms.
The
sun burns.
When
I fell, dancing in the sleet of dust
which
ghosted onto windowpanes.
I filled
cracks in pavement and daffodil fields
in
February. I tumbled on tongues. Stuck out
to
catch the raindrops and snow.
I
came from Eris. Where the phones always ring
and
the bone clocks clack down the minutes.
This
end of the world will not rest until we all fall.
Even
the moon falls closer with every turn of
the axis.
The
sky falls up into the oceans. The forests fall down
into
the sea. One day. You will fall into me.
I
am the numbers, the wails, the quite contraries. I saw the end.
Forgotten
in the nine-hundred and ninety-nine pixels
of
sun. Caught in the corners of ghost rooms.
No
one sees. Busy flashes which leap from train to train.
Streaks
of colour who used to live in midnight city photographs.
As
the bone clocks crack the final hour. The dial tone drones.
Drones.
Drones. When I fell. I saw the end.
If
you stare long enough at the sky. The sun lives in stardust.
It
burns.
Of
course, this is only a theory.
