riding the dragon [anti human poems]

we created the beast, and now we must ride it, over

oceans, winds, even to the 

moon, outer

space is fucking cold, they

tell me, though I’ve never been

but to the edge on the skin where it buckles and shivers

under a million hard points of light overhead, the wind,

seems driven less by the sun
than the friction of the flesh

against the void.