Cheap silverware screeches in the twist-turn centrifuge of the garbage disposal, warbling twisted metal blues. A restless thing gnaws at the frontal lobe like some starving rat. It burns so hot, a battery-acid burn. These things exist inside the dying star upon my shoulders.
It’s some magnificent and pathetic rubber band ball of frayed wires, the electric snakes seizuring with inspiration. Each strand is alive with an idea, the embryo of creation. Most die before they reach my pen.
I cannot form anything with this unstable form. The sum of its parts is a cosmic scrapyard. I know there is beauty somewhere inside. But everything that comes is so fucking ugly.
Maybe this star will illuminate the sky one day. Maybe the frantic dancers will perform a supernova ballet before my brain’s collapse. Maybe something will come from its destruction. I hope so.