When you get up really close,
Reality begins to bend –
Everyone seems more morose,
Life seems like it has no end:
Everybody throws their wobblers.
Everyone is talking cobblers.
Every whisper in your lug-hole,
Every glint in every eye
Takes you down a massive plughole.
Might be better if you die,
Than to hear the voices go on
(Taking back control, and so on).
Here it is, a snap from space,
Lots of heat, and eff-all light,
A monster with a hidden face –
No, it isn’t very bright:
You can sense the cosmic ruction.
Gravity. No loss of suction.
Here’s a swirling mass of matter
Gorged on by a bunch of spivs
Hell-bent on six months of natter,
Seeing if there’s something gives.
Give the black hole more to eat –
And later ask it, Trick Or Treat.
Click here for a Guardian article