From the Mythic Delirium Books archives
Plutoid
John Philip Johnson
The sun as seen from Pluto’s surface. Courtesy WikiPedia
Our central star is barely a point of light. There are no hues here, very few lines. Everything expands rapidly to its limits, like air in a vacuum, like people in a claustrophobic ship, gripped in a suit, the external universe compacted to a few microns, pressed on like a second skin. We are utterly diffuse. Black infinity chokes us. Extreme logic prevails. In an instant, flirting turns to fucking. Within seconds a conflict over whose elbow gets the arm rest ends in death and fresh meat is served tartar. Functions have only shards of vectors left within. I don’t think the buttons work. I think the laws of physics are effacing. Deep space has no gray.
“Plutoid” first appeared in Mythic Delirium, Issue 26, Winter/Spring 2012.
“Plutoid” copyright © 2012 by John Philip Johnson. This poem may not be reproduced in any form without the author’s express written permission.
