The Sweet Smell of Chaos 

The frantic fizzle-frazzle fanatic,
pounding the sidewalk 
proposing splintered logic
and energised by hypertrophic rhythm.

Pulsating patterns propound
a maelstrom mindset, 
a confused calibration
housed in a chocolate-stained cabinet.

The metallic clang 
from a spoonful of sympathy 
is mixed in a sunlit side room.

Sudden alchemy from a cobalt portal. 
The succulent sound of ozone.
The taste of psychic salvation.

Someone crunches on a red apple
and starts to cough.

 
Dark Matter

There was a hippy unreality in my dream.
I was in an online echo chamber
where thoughts queued for attention
and words were bending into a black hole.

The background was populated
with pixelated memories 
of the 90s rave scene 
and pieces of leftover pizza.

There was anxiety when
conversational voids appeared
in a debate concerning
early climate change warnings.

The galactic rulers filled the space
with free streaming particles
and announced that cosmic microwaves 
would be available in all new-build cosmic houses.

In the corner of a park,
a man was standing on a box 
and yelling into a broken megaphone,
asking: if we can’t see it, 
does dark matter really matter?