[There fell a star from heaven]

It was very kind of the romantic Greeks
to call my girlfriend the Long-haired,
but as for me, I prefer her real name.
For some unexplainable reason these names are always double.
In fact, as you approach Earth
you appear simultaneously to two mad astronomers,
their libidinous eyes
bearing down voyeur-like on the steamed-up eyepieces 
of state-owned telescopes.
Masturbating in identical fashion 
on different continents in the darkness of their observatories
they dream of contracting legal marriage with you,
as a result of which
you will take their meaningless surnames.

Their perfectly synchronised motion at two vibrations per second
makes up somewhat for the paltriness this image conveys
when compared to you, unashamed and playful,
undressing solemnly and proudly whilst spouting
millions of tons of dust and ice
and relishing the chance
to expose every inch of your beautiful nakedness

This is a girl's first innocent sexual experience:
to show her young body to curious boys
who do not yet know what to do with it.
With trembling hands your voluptuous admirers
enter innermost records into their observation logs.
Fact is they have no hope to see their love ever come true
and, like lascivious impotent men,
they look through the key-hole to see a beauty undress

Your appearance
also sets in motion a complex rite
of mass suicide among the members of a sect dazed
by their love for you and their belief in your perfection.
According to the coroner's final report,
their death was caused by an overdose 
of a virulent sleep-inducing substance
diluted in a mixture of Coca-Cola
and apple syrup.
The bodies will be found in a basement
in identical position and identical black clothes.
The young men carefully castrated,
every one of them with a standard piercing:
foreskin and left nipple are perforated,
rings inserted into the holes 
and strung together with a thin metal chain.
The young men have had the lower half of their right outer ears
severed with a sharp instrument
(the same instrument has been used on everybody
a fact obviously connected with a rite).
The young women have had their heads shaved.
Deep inside the uterus of every one of them
two coins have been inserted
- five cents and one cent-
their labia carefully sewn up with a thin nylon thread.
All these details are the outcome of activities carried out
prior to the suicide of those taking part in the rite,
although further manipulation has taken place afterwards.
The members of the sect die one by one.
Upon death, the next in line 
sticks a chrysalis of the Acherontia Atropos butterfly into their mouth,
slipping a see-through plastic bag with the sect's symbol over their head
and a tight metal ring with the same symbol onto the ring finger,
then it is their turn to take poison
and lie down face upward on a narrow bunk to await the onset of death.
Their faces glow with blissful smiles.
Death is beautiful

The souls of the dead 
float evenly and naturally over several thousand miles
to flow into your sacred streams.
It is at those moments 
that the astronomers register several puzzling flashes,
and, in accordance with their own ideas about the subject, 
they describe the movements of dust and gas streams,
of the ionised particles of a matter known to us in the form of feelings.
Kindly, among the smacking sounds
thoughtfully made by rosy highbrow lips,
they explain that the fundamental mass of your body
consists solely of ice
and that the glowing of the core is due to the pressure 
generated by the solar wind,
which will reach its peak when you cross the perihelion.
Using standard expressions such as "do you see?"
and "I am entirely persuaded that..."
they warn that phenomena of this kind
may present a certain danger,
because according to one of the theories,
the destructive Tungus meteorite
also had a similar structure…

They cannot even imagine,
how exciting it is
to possess you in the direct, the most literal sense.
Only I can fly towards you like a rebellious and sombre spirit,
who sows the seeds of evil without taking any delight in it...
She is beautiful, this space traveller, well-proportionate, graceful.
She has three tails - the first one of dust, cold and heavy,
the second one of searing plasma
and still a third one
whose nature cannot be explained
by my astrophysicist friends
a long and thin stream
stretching over millions of miles
and piercing the heart of the warrior who, by chance, 
happened to fly across its way.
Oh, how intoxicating it is to stop her inexorable pace of fire
to rush in and ruthlessly entangle the painstakingly woven tails.
She will answer with splashes of sparkling and coquettish spurts,
with the ecstasy of joint motion and with heavy breathing
with the madness, rage, sighs and screams of a young Bacchante...
Girls who are an easy prey are of no interest, not even for a second.
Besides, the feeling of frustration looms large
for as I describe the encounter with my loved-one 
I slip inadvertently into the rhythm of somebody else's poetry.

The encounter should take place
in an endlessly black desert,
where, far away from heavenly bodies, 
dead life has transformed senses into cold cosmic dust,
where Neptune and Pluto rule,
and where it takes hundreds of years to warm a frozen ice core,
and my mind has to accomplish 
an unthinkable, impossible, virtually hopeless task,
when you kneel for long prayers and give yourself up to me, 
tender yet unmoved
bashful and cold, hardly aware of my passion,
you will not heed any pleas, then you liven up more and more
and finally against your will you share my ardour!

On exiting the Solar system you leave behind a viscous ether
crammed with information trash
esoteric texts from religious sects,
unreliable quotations,
inaccurate weather forecasts, deceitful news,
and tiresome advertisements for useless products
obligingly broadcast by a powerful central antenna
for the sake of the synchronised satisfaction
of the urge to urinate.