Dear Mr Alien

from time to time
the world plasters me with bank statements
and playgrounds where children sit next to each other
staring at the ground, staring at phones

and then the eye of humanity
looks a little off-colour, a little pale,
disjointed, raindrops lined unevenly
I empty the trash can of old poetry and read a Fairy Tale

dance with Bartholomew,
tell my dog secrets, his fur softer than rainbows and laughter
his barks filled with the puppy of his tongue
and in the midst of the money falling on my skin

the strippers turning the pennies on their tongues like sugared almonds
leftover cannabis on the beach
Rihanna doesn’t really mind the bruises anymore,
and I think Taylor Swift is tired of being a country girl virgin

I think you and I are destined to be like this
like little gumdrops, little sweets, tasted by the environment,
if only we could trash heaven with our Jimi Hendrix and Banksy
and our Santander and our iPad cases

there’s no point in calling us small and insignificant anymore
Carl Sagan has exhausted the words
I think humans are just a species ruining themselves and deep down they know,
but whatever, we’ll figure it out, we guess…

the jazz plays like fire
tell myself my family abroad loves me, and grandmother doesn’t hate me,
that grandmother thinks women are important
that our ovaries, when dried like crumpled washcloths

, dry like raisins and prunes and pressed brown daisies
that we have some use
and that men won’t let the world go to their heads,
i was there on the moon when Neil took a step

i was there when the fish walked on the soil,
and the first bird felt a raincloud glide over its feathered budding head
from time to time
the world moves like a Peugeot on the desert

it transmits radio waves and the universe puckers its lips
and the God that everybody stopped believing in
because of Hitler and Bin Laden
has retired to his velvet sofa with the Daily Show on repeat

he sips his ethereal coffee, and takes a spoonful of peanut butter
and says ‘I think I’d like to go for a swim today’
and out he pops his feet and glides into the infinity pool of stars
and doesn’t care

not after what Stephen Fry said, anyway.
and ‘everybody likes Stephen Fry more than me’,
I think you need to realise that having a Daddy in the Sky
is so much prettier than thinking an explosion came out of no where

because no where is our hearts these days
because God must feel cheated, that people hurt each other,
lets bad shit happen because we can do it,
to test our limits, to see if you’re really gonna drop a nuke on Japan

God bless America, eh?
I’m so reborn, so raised
so deeply woven, like I got telepathy injected into me
and I can hear the trees getting offended by humans swearing in cars

and flowers getting pissed off at adultery
and bees wishing that Satan burn us all,
maybe Stephen Fry was right,
maybe there’s no God,

because we’re in hell.

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