Distant Solar Systems

Distant solar systems and all the minor planets

Know nothing of our satellites and 747s

Fireworks that recreate the birth of constellations

Dying songs that laugh and shotgun powder imitations

When I am a sailor, and the sky, a pitch-black ocean

I’ll look down at my bleeding heart and wish I were a Vulcan

It’s Byzantine structures, churches and all

All of our treasure, a violent gold

All of the empires crumble in stone

Great architecture, build it in chrome

God and I, we correspond with intermittent letters

I send postcards from the road, and now and then he answers

Echoes northern city-states, and all the mighty kingdoms

Head of sewing needles on an unending horizon

I knew there was a scene before you

Ever thought to sing it

And call yourself a bastard

And I know you like an orphan

'Cause great men of science and literature

Don’t impress me, or can offer

Because I am a chisel in your hand

Screaming at marble from a microphone stand