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Poetry from The Literary Review
No Doubt the Cosmic Victim Unfolds
MIKE NEFF
We know the zealots of science winnowing a
lustrum of heaven's radio with shallow bowls
have found the nearby spaces of galaxy
to be heating themselves far beyond our will
to keep them cold or hold them close. It appears
as if these puffers of black crush and hot gas—
eons on the way to becoming human—are evaginating,
coming uncoiled, being inhaled by an invisible shunt
implanted in the celestial vault of God's divine cranium.
The notion of a logically ordered cosmos is therefore
so much old chalk, the belief in Big Bang gone
flatter than earth. There is no dispute, only denial.
Science can see the proof, ferris-wheeling away
towards a certain dark place. All arrows point to it.
Draw a line from your nose to Uranus come August,
then straight ahead far enough to prick saucerphilia
and that's where you'll find it, hanging out in the
sky like a big drain, atom-small and deadly as the
alien confusion which will never come. Science, able
to memo out a facade of comprehension only days after
discovery, has named this odd pinch, this cure for Bang,
this bugger of all black holes ripping apart the major
philosophies of earth—and which they have inferred to
exist somewhere beyond the rim of light—NGC20098-A12,
nicknamed The Great Suck. Science now believes the
universe won't collapse in on itself and recycle,
only be sucked out of sensibility. All worldviews must
therefore readjust, find a God at the end of the straw.
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