While reading some absolutely terrible erotica I tried to imagine the somewhat uninspired encounter as seen from the perspective of three different voyeurs'. These three compositions were conceived at the same time. I was thinking about introspection and how it relates to shared experience. 

The B7 Triptych

A model once sold,
then painted in silver hues,
now it rules the stars.
Its engines don’t roar,
the glue lines still visible,
yet it still takes flight.


Same ship, different spin,
mirrored to fool wandering eyes,
budget tricks the mind.
A launch once again,
history repeats itself,
flipped frame, same old stars.


A road left its mark,
letters twisted into fate,
power in a name.
Sleek like jagged glass,
the sound of her name cuts deep,
whispered in terror.

Dressed in winter’s breath,
snowfall wrapped around fire,
a queen made of ice.
Ruthless hands in white,
blood stains would not show on silk,
perfection in war.

The game is called war,
yet their armor tells the tale—
cricket, not combat.
Pads upon his chest,
warriors of polyester,
foam-born fighters rise.

Gravity is false,
as are the chains that bind men,
still, they do not break.
Chains that weigh no more
than a child’s party favor,
prisoner of air.

Future’s finest chair,
a past life in some office,
painted destiny.
Plastic dreams endure,
the cosmos built from budget,
faux leather in space.

Its engines don’t roar,
but still, the stars blink awake,
believing the lie.


Of Flight and Falsehood A Collection of Starbound Machines 3 13 25

Same ship, different spin,
mirrored to fool wandering eyes,
budget tricks the mind.
A launch once again,
history repeats itself,
flipped frame, same old stars.

Death loomed, then withdrew,
she smiled and rewrote her fate,
villains live longer.
Chains that weigh no more
than a child’s party favor,
prisoner of air.

Dressed in winter’s breath,
snowfall wrapped around fire,
a queen made of ice.
Gravity is false,
as are the chains that bind men,
still, they do not break.

Ruthless hands in white,
blood stains would not show on silk,
perfection in war.
Plastic dreams endure,
the cosmos built from budget,
faux leather in space.



Ghost Signals and Hollow Crowns 3 16 25

Old friends, lost in time,
brilliant minds in cluttered rooms,
stories left untold.
Sleek like jagged glass,
the sound of her name cuts deep,
whispered in terror.

Avon’s smirk betrayed,
their trust a fragile mirror,
shattered with a kiss.
A glance too deadly,
the TARDIS doors slammed shut fast,
time feared her power.

Shaken, never stirred,
a queen of venom and wit,
Bond was not ready.
Love, a loaded gun,
cocked with whispers, fired with doubt,
none were left standing.

A mask worn too long,
laughter hiding heavy storms,
storms she dared to name.
Fur against her skin,
the kindest soul she had met,
gentle hands held tight.

Two stars in one flat,
laughter echoing like ghosts,
whiskey-fueled legends.
Future’s finest chair,
a past life in some office,
painted destiny.






A Cycle of Faces and Fates 3 17 25

Bambino: One shop destroyed. Three heads split like overripe melons. One man wounded and one castrated. All in two hours. Just two hours I left you alone. Two hours.
Trinity: Well, you asked me to give you a hand.

The B7 Triptych

MMMMudd