The Tragedy of the USS Brittannica

There were shards of us left,
space collision in a comet's dying light,
the cold quiet of an immediate vacuum in the aftermath,
terrible scream,
terrible rending,
then the thunderclap of cacophonous silence,
curiosity, excitement, trepidation,
hope,
                  horror,
we were thrown to the solar winds,
the nuts and bolts of us,
the cast metal jagged edges of a trillion dollars,
unspent fuel,
an evanescent dream, dispersed,

Debra from Compression burned her tits on a hot plate,
Tony from Propulsion Systems untouched, angry
   to be left alive when his brother, Pedro Lunkletter,
      was taken by cancer,
Amber Fingerling cussing about skinned knees,
some skinwalker stowaway lost his shit in the commotion,
Captain Comey got no more balls,
the three rough boys from Engineering can't breathe,
Eugene Wonder, black, smooth, moustachioed, lay
   locked in his room,
the Corporal with the lisp last to board may have stayed home,
vengeful Jon Ashy cutting his way through the docking cables
   with a dull boot knife he bought on Craigslist in 1996,
      the fire in his belly now only a candle's light,
Crab Apple from Botany floating listless and lifeless,
   a gallon of salt water in her stomach - frozen,
      three goldfish in cryo-hibernation
         on their way to Venus,
a radio signal from a faraway home fades through,
Dunstin checking in,
"...is everything okay up there...
is anything wrong?"
little tiny Petra Vance, our child priest,
   lost in the endless stars,

and me, a grown man,
   begging for pussy.

TA