These Days of the Dog

Riding the wine sea.
Led by three dog-faced stars.
Sirius alpha, beta and the omega.

My body is pneumonic click,
the velvet of adjusting atmosphere.
My thoughts, artificial and binary.
Metal is my bones.
I see through perspex.

Adrift.
Alone.
Home, light-years gone.

I would rather be the dreaming near-dead.
In rows, honeycomb rooms of stasis.
Slow metabolic, catatonic thoughts.
Long ice stream breath writing
glyphs on metal glass.
Caskets cells in my starboat’s tomb.

In the unsound of the void
Without sense.
Silent.
Unfeeling.
Unseeing.

I will not see the dog star god woman.
I will not hear the endless howl.
Or reach to touch her silk-limbed nymphs bearing their burning stars.

She that operates from afar.
Sirius alpha, beta and the omega.
In  these days of the dog,
In the mourning’s constellation,
Three stars speak of justice or madness.

[Kelda Crich is a new born entity. She’s been lurking in her creator’s mind for a few years. Now she’s out in the open. Find her in London looking at strange things in medical museums or on her blog. Her poems have appeared in NamelessCthulhu Haiku II and the Future Lovecraft anthology.] 

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