the satellites bleep

and so she orbits
satellites bleeping.

dave matthews songs sound appropriate yet
jarring.

galaxies twirling and concealing themselves through defiance and
sparks.

stars imploding without noise.

dead bodies effortlessly drift on by
trussed up like slaughtered chickens

cold.
congealed.
cling wrapped.

‘it all comes from the dark place,’
he says.

‘no, that’s where it returns to, to fester and brew,’
she says.

that’s all, then.

until next time.

until i write again.