in two hundred and fifty thousand years

my sludge of waste might lose its poison

but nothing’s set in stone

except the joy and anguish of being here

with one week to practice what we believe

but can we sleep it off   or at least die trying?

my sincere apology to mother earth

as glaciers melt around us

and wild winds rattle the lattice

and thunder claps the hell out of the world

and sheet lightning spears and spins the sky

now, with a mathematician’s belief I throw things around

and make this defunct world my theme song

though I know the theory of connection

between music and maths is a myth

I’ll continue singing against all odds,

I’ll cheat that physics and I’ll cheat nature

and keep a layer of lyrics between the world and myself

and convince my friends to come for dinner

despite the weather man’s threats to throw his things around –

to chuck the astrolabe, the vane, the compass, the spirit level,

out the window where he wants to lean to finger the breeze

or lick the air without having to answer to anybody

he said, keep me alive folks, please do,

it’s not my fault I simply make the forecasts

yet it is your own sin to believe them