My house is my own personal TARDIS.
I fly to the far reaches, swimming through stardust,
Land on the smallest moon of Candassa.

Shocking brilliance assaults my eyes
The sticky sweetness of old bananas,
The mouth shudders, repulsed.
The tip of the tongue against the tang of forgotten fruit.
The ants scurry, scraping legs against the insides of plastic bags.

The taste of the world a dirty yellow rag left in yesterday’s mop water.
Ford Macintyre was reminded of Dallas, Texas in July.
There were no ants on Candassa.
Just unicorns that pranced bouncing on the spongy ground,
A danger to the kangaroos.

The wonky rick-rocking of gravity unbalanced him.
Because his pants were red and the bushes looked like lollipops.
“Doesn’t that just chap my ass?”

The seductive sidewalk of might be maybe.
The contentment of chaos.

Ford used the springboard of ground to somersault
Through the plasma atmosphere
Swirling around his body like giant cradling hands.

Secret Nerd Princess collected the flashes
Spread them on the floor in front of her.

Ford’s joy trumpets out of his ribcage
His frozen fractures jagged across the bow of aortas.
He is happy wrapped in the impossible.
Protinus stellam secundum ius usque mane.
The unicorns kneel in reverent prayer
As the trees sing their lullabies.

My body ripped back through space-time.



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