In Conversation with the Universe

By Antony José Ma Junior

To Jupiter – A Star That You Might Have Been

Such turbulence

Such violence

You resemble a star

You were made a star

But a star that couldn’t quite make it

A star that might have been

Is that the reason for your turbulence?

Your Majesty

Named after the Roman God you are

The very King of the Roman gods

Your nature is that of a god

But you are substandard

King of only the planets,

not of our actual star

Therefore you rage

And rage and rage and rage

for centuries, eons and ages

An old rage

In turmoil for 5 billion years

A long time to rage

And still raging

Wildly uncontained

For not amassing enough gases

to light up like our sun

A long time to complain

You’re certainly not one to mess with

I know I wouldn’t.

Your violent storms

Such rage

Unceasing violent winds

Such violence

You roar and whistle I hear

What say you?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pp51_s37qX8

To Saturn – An Enigma

Just what are you?

Seemingly more serene than your raging neighbour

But ah! You are guarded

The very opposite to your outwardly angry ‘son’

You do not reveal yourself at first sight

You are a mystery to me

Your mysterious rings shroud you in a veil of secrecy

But a slightly lesser giant

with your own turbulence,

or is it?

A different kind of rage

Or is it even rage?

What say you?

There’s definitely a message here.

To The Vela Pulsar – Speeded Up by Death

Such speed

Spinning 11 times a second

After the violent explosive death

Of your former glory

Incomprehensible gravity

So very small you have now become

Yet so dangerous to be near you

You tear apart anything and everything

I cannot even begin to imagine how you feel

As you spin faster with further age

Eventually becoming a black hole

The actual doorway to hell

Woe be anything that strays near you.

Are you even sane anymore?

It feels to me you are sick

So very very sick.

What say you?

To the Black Hole – The Ultimate Endgame

You are the very door to hell

Nothing escapes you

Not even light

You are omnivore incarnate

The monster of destruction

The ultimate unimaginable violence

The ultimate endgame of stars

You have no mercy

Because you are death

Truly, ultimately, insatiably

I wonder

What happens when you take in another of your kind?

When two gates of hell collide?

What say you?

Such a universe of chaos and destruction

The very origins of life.

We can work it out
So sang doubt & Lennon
With a general McCartney UK English
Having shed their enigmatic accent Scouse
The main accent is to be able to understand each other
especially when ordering thing and food
I mean you don’t want to end up getting drinks octopus arsehole
and nocturnal soup that disappear from your potatoes on a late plate night
the Irish meal potato is famine to make nothing about
but the very fun of concept Billy’s nocturnal Connolly
does remind me of potatoes on the Tipperary Eternal Emerald,
Isle that a vacuous, malodourous, mentally deranged someplace like me
might, just might, end up in a git,
and end up speaking in peculiar retirement
rife with heavy nasal vocabulary and intonation.
My phlegm is named António
commonly known as José
and I now regret refusing to update my Antony Mac OS
because I am the only X who looks like he has swallowed a bird
to have no plate to spit text about my very function
which Mac else with an UPDATED everybody has in my Mac,
feeling very low about this,
so I’ll share most kind and gracious class’s importantly updated soup
and learn my Mac
to never mention the lesson
like the War Basil did,
if indeed he did learn his Fawlty
which I truly chewed.

Let’s Me Try and Work This Out

by Antony José Ma Junior.

We can work it out

So sang Lennon & McCartney

With a general UK English accent

Having shed their enigmatic Scouse accent

The main thing is to be able to understand each other

especially when ordering food and drinks

I mean you don’t want to end up getting octopus arsehole soup

and nocturnal potatoes that disappear from your plate on a late night meal

the Irish potato famine is nothing to make fun about

but the very concept of Billy Connolly’s nocturnal potatoes

does remind me of Tipperary on the Eternal Emerald Isle,

someplace that a vacuous, malodorous, mentally deranged git like me

might, just might, end up in retirement,

and end up speaking in peculiar vocabulary

rife with heavy nasal intonation and phlegm.

My name is António José

commonly known as Antony

and I now regret refusing to update my Mac OS X

because I am the only bird who looks like he has swallowed a plate

to have no speech to text function on my Mac

which everybody else with an UPDATED Mac has in my class,

feeling very low about this,

so I’ll share most kind and gracious Beth’s importantly updated Mac

and learn my lesson

to never mention the War

like Basil Fawlty did,

if indeed he did learn his lesson

which I truly doubt.

Ode to Edgar Aetheling

by Antony José Ma Junior.

The last scion of Saxon Kings

Line of Cerdic House of Wessex

The last Witan proclaimed

Edgar Aetheling is next.

Born far away in exile

Of the House of Wessex

Blood of Alfred Great

Anglo-Saxon Rex

Harold Godwinson

Killed at Senlac Hill

The Anglo-Saxon rose

Cut down lying still.

The coronation must

For Edgar Aetheling

New Westminster Abbey

Royal prince in waiting

But it was not to be

The Witan did betray

Young Edgar Aetheling

And gave his crown away.

Edgar Rex Secundus

The rightful king he should have been

Of Anglo-Saxon England

Over all his English kin.

Taken by the Bastard

Never to be king

Began a fateful lifetime

Of serving other kings.

I say a prayer for Edgar

History’s footnote

No grave nor monument

Could you and I take note.

I attach hereto my revisions

bacon-wrapped impressions

tiny, tasty, oily and crunchy

and it died of overeating!

Fountains drip gold.

Nevertheless, save your money.

Pottery Barn is over-priced anyway.

Shop in the mall under a roof

That’s how it burns.

“Without it we could not see,”

he ejaculated. He was then more

knackered than a hibernating bear.

And fell into a deep slumber.

Ma Junior – Assignment 2

A reading and a brief interpretation of the poem that I’ve appreciated.

The pleasant blessed pastures of Wessex of the South West,

Of the poetic rolling wet and green of Thomas Hardy’s nest,

Seeded poetry in my heart,

waiting to blossom at last,

for it was there in the old Wessex capital

that I had buried my longing heart

longing to return to me undyingly

just as I yearn to return to Sherborne

to fill the void in me and be reborn.

What stories could they tell

If stones could speak?

What fables could they testify

If fields could talk?

Such history that the Saxon abbey could reveal

Of secrets and intrigues and life and death,

Such tales that South Cadbury could convey,

Of Camelot and Arthur and Guinevere and Merlin.

Such myths and legends the South West boasts

Of Stonehenge and Avebury and Glastonbury and Cerne Abbas

and the mysterious moors of wild and windy Devon.

Sherborne speaks to me like no other place does

Dorset calls out to me like no other place does

“Come home” ring the bells at Sherborne

Live in exile no more, retake your place.

Such overwhelming yearning to return

Drives me insane and imminent collapse

Everyday, every hour, every minute, every second.

And indeed cloudy days and foggy days

Fill me with life and energy and optimism and hope

And likewise rainy days and wintry nights

Remind me of hearth and home I used to relish

On England’s pleasant pastures and rolling green.

To live in exile is severe suffering and punishment

I accept this retribution for an unjust past life

That I must have lived in my previous reincarnation

But then a famous son of Liverpool once sang

“It’s not always going to be this grey”

“All Things Must Pass”

And  I must go home.

Dance Dance Dance ladies and gentlemen,

Dance away to your hearts’ content.

‘Tis time for the Morris dance,

stepping rhythmically,

wearing bell pads

tinkling to and fro

waving handkerchiefs

brandishing swords

holding sticks

and dance, dance, dance.

Dance until Christmas

And then we go a mummering,

Performing St. George and the Dragon

At each other’s homes,

Dancing,

joking,

reciting,

and above all,

eating.

Desolation is an understatement.

You got your wish,

having entirely forgotten the old saying:

Be careful of what you wish for: you might just get it.

On the alien terrain you now stand,

the crescent Saturn and its glorious rings are rising on the horizon,

in the background of the deep dark blackness of space.

Deep dark loneliness is now your company,

A just reward for your incessant complaint:

of living in a place with too many people.

Gone is the noise you hated and complained,

the silence now is deafening.

You look around the alien terrain

and wonder is there life here.

How you wish you could share this experience with someone.

But hark, you hear something,

a low whirr mumbling.

You run across the alien rock plain of small and big stones,

and behind a large rock

you see a spacecraft

completely alien

its door

opening

revealing

a

figure,

eyes

capture

yours,

cannot

move,

frozen,

the

alien,

looks

like

.

.

.

.

.

.

DAVID BOWIE!!!

You float on board his spacecraft,

involuntarily,

abducted!

You got your wish again!

Too bad, so sad.