The Hollows of Mars
I come here to speak not of Asimov.
‘Buy Jupiter!’ He screamed from the covers
of schlock paperbacks –
emblazoned with impossibly delicate constructions
pollocked with nuanced gleam and splashed shade -
and from each block of light a face
might be planted there, hard to see, but
acclimatized interstellar with not a hair
out of place, embracing space;
how tempting and easy to slip
one of these into your blazer pocket?
Or ‘Boys! Grow GIANT mushrooms in your cellars!’
Get this – I recant Bradbury, disavow Clarke –
a fall of moondust, sinking shuttles
beget creeping worlds that evolve and scuttle,
send out for Kimbo Kinnison – triplanetary extraordinary
needed more now than he ever was.
Didn’t they ignite the gases of those giants
to send a message to the stars? Buy Coke?
No. For here, in the Hollows of Mars
there is a lack of substance –
once it was buttered thick, now only shea and palm
such quantities won’t actually do harm
per se – but witness these tacky packages, plastic tat
with which they are pleased to wrap
your futures – not mine. Lo! Fry’s Chocolate Cream
surreptitious beneath your sheets before you dream
of ‘To Your Scattered Bodies Go!’
where Sir Richard Francis Burton’s beyond universal
masked in new flesh; ready for rehearsal.
