If you’re an arsehole on Earth, you’re an arsehole in Outer Space.
There really is no escape.

I said goodbye to my wife and dressed it up in lace,
Wrote a note for my teenage son, all in upper case.
And then left without exposing myself to his leaking face.

Will he become an arsehole too?
Or will he be one of the remaining few,
Who dances where he knows he should
And understands that beauty lies in what can never be understood?

Now I don’t have time for that toilet paper fortune cookie philosophy,
It’s time to float away like an unanchored apostrophe.
Besides, those things only ever bothered me in the middle of the night,
But right now I realise and I quake with fright,
As it dawns on me that in the shuttle I will lose my left and right,
Living in perpetual night and stabbing myself with an imaginary knife.

My mission is simple and my goals are clear,
To discover an hospitable environment comparatively near.
A place where rich people can shoot meteors and afterwards retire for a piece of moon pie, And in the evenings they they’ll claim land with shiny golden ties.

They will gloat as they look back at Earth and they will do up their pasts with a zip.
I know because I have already done it several times on my trip. The trouble is I can’t bury myself any further than my lips,
Talking to myself, dropping clever quips,
I use distraction as a temporary bulldog clip, It squeezes me tight within its grip.
But I slither out of the unsealed edges of my mind, dropping off the sides like dip on a tortilla chip.

When my destination comes into view,
I can’t complete the tasks I’m meant to do.
It’s like I’ve been struck down with interstellar flu,
My hands will just not move.

And then I see it.
A giant octopus wrapped around the place I’m meant to visit that’s suddenly become so near.
It’s a semi-transparent purple colour and its tentacles wrap around the whole jagged sphere.
Inside it I can make out corridors, waterfalls of dust and things with miniscule heads diving into lakes of rocks,
A leaping lion made of fire changes into an arctic fox.
I feel as though I’m a burglar peeking through a letter box,
And I know I should ping base and tell them, for scientific reasons of course, but also so I can stop.

I don’t though.
Instead I thrust on, leaving the world within the tentacles of a monster to itself.
I want people back home to think Earth is the only option left on the shelf,
Leave them to their cars and talent shows and Christmas elfs,
While I drift in circles until my fuel runs out and I finally get to lose myself.