Cancer in Atlas

It is snowing.

I am swimming in the sun:
A nuclear atrium, sweating
White Hydrogen.

I stand up on the sun and I run
Like a clown balancing upon a waterwheel
I am trundling no-ocean.

I can’t feel it
But I am operating the sun
With my funny feet.

A man rolling
A radiant ball of Helium.

The moon is giving chase beneath.
It is snowing chunks into the sun-churn.
Where is it coming from – Heaven?

Everyplace appears like vertigo
And the snow wants to replace the stars.

I swing a heavy limb like an anchor
Dragging a Martian head through a Venusian bed.
And then it appears in the blackness:

Jupiter, imperial
And all the spiders fall
Through the enormous hole

In his side,
And you are safe

But benign to begin with.


2 thoughts on “Cancer in Atlas

  1. All the surreal and the too-real that makes dreams into nightmares, the sub-basement-conscious into our hideous or comfortable death’s heads looking back at us in the mirror. There isn’t a line here that doesn’t work, and work slavishly and effortlessly in perverse and heavenly contradiction, to produce the effect of the within us without us that roots around in the truffles of alienation for sustenance. Fine, stoned and immaculate writing, Arron, if you’ll excuse the Morrison steal. I won’t bore you with quoting the entire thing back at you, just say I loved the third through six stanzas especially.

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