The Martian

Log entry: white moon, smooth from distance,

grey, pitted up close.


Habitable? Vacuum, no air.

Sodium trace:


saltwater residue,

tear remnants, atmosphere departed.


You don’t have to be mad to fly here,

or NASA trained, but it helps.




Before you sign

for the roving mission,


silver spacesuit measured,

climbing aboard the rust bucket,


you should read the dossier,

updated by former travellers.


Option: sue for non disclosure.

Self preservation is the first law of nature.




Earth, 3rd planet,

weathered by water,


millions of years.

dirt = rounded edges.


Breathe in,

a kiss deferred.



Cough = throat tickle.




Mars, red planet, my home,

95% Carbon Dioxide.


Air is poison; no water to speak of.

Nitrogen, Argon, Carbon Monoxide are the rest.




Rock weathered by hard wind.

Dirt = angular, micro.


Breathe in = shredded lungs,

tiny jagged edges finding the quickest way out.




I struggle in the black void,

sustained by recycled oxygen, repeated thoughts.


Can I deter you with tales?

Life lived in suspended animation?


Ripcord frayed, information delayed, squiggles,

dodgy handwriting, health warning lost in translation.


There is no guarantee

your feet will touch ground again.




Up for the ride?

You still want to sign?


Silver suit = tin foil.

Your madness? Self certified.


You’re still here?

Jeez, I thought I had problems.



We are crazy enough to survive this.

Last Song of The Universe