The Arc

The hellship has embarked
from a tear in the earth's backside
in a shower of soil and lava.
It now makes its final run
on the gassy upper airs,
crashing like a retarded donkey
into a buffet of stars,
chocolate streaming from its prow.
On the planet below, captive hearts
held by the race of wives,
captains of the dawdled year,
the coffin mouthed lawyers,
the hopscotch children, hobos, kings,
find their stomachs turn chrysalis
and their souls pour as butterflies
into the beautied air.

A billion cabbage white rise,
pale horses from the husk of earth,
all crackling up around the ship
sucking at its sugar oars,
painting its ghost with wings.
Still bruising into deeper space
the hellship takes our butter souls
turtle-backing back to Om ―
the all-voice of the minstrelry,
the arse that candy coats the night
and swallows the cosmic thumb.
Inside the ship the humours
are boiling into an every-none,
biles black and yellow squirm
and lunch on bones of fire,
carving ribbages whole out of
the alien queen Phlegmata's side.
A boar of blood stalks the deck,
biting off the heads of flowers
and phthiffing out confetti colours.

At the gooey epicentral pit
the galaxies digest themselves
and that is where the captain steers
this caterpillar Noah's arc,
into the berth of Omish caramel,
the seventh circle of the universe,
the vortic treacle pit.
At its lip the vacuum crumbles,
the orchestra of stars ― nebula
singing in tongues out of a fit,
calves at taurus' heels, every
jack o lantern mother of suns ―
all fall silent as the sea
and watch the hellship teeter in.
Hull broke, the seeds of man
spilt silly into the depths of dark,
blood bile and phlegm coughed
blackly back beyond the lights,
and the ship took itself in bits
under the broom of nothing.
Our butterflies tinkled down
into the abysmal sluice
and found Om waiting there,
buck toothed and delicious,
a pinata of blossoms.