Thumb on the striker

endlessly caroselling

round and round.

I think of all the different ways

this will kill me.

I’ll build a soot deposit

and one day the whirling smoke

will just ignite

all through my breast

and i’ll go up like a thatched roof

sending me ablaze

and taking the row with me

Holst is blaring

and I’m singing the tune

of planets whirling

marvelling in their flames and fire

Saturns ashen rings

colliding with Jupiter

It’s wide red eye

peeping at

vivid self destruction

in cosmic slow motion

Maybe it’ll kill me slowly

But there’s no poetry in that.