There are no accidents in space,
each meteor is contained,
coincidence, a trick of the light,
laboratory conditions prevail.
You cannot weep in outer space,
zero gravity dose not allow,
its six degrees of seperation,
and one keepsake photograph.
I keep my blue jeans in the fridge,
with my canisters of film,
plus a whack of chocolate snacks,
for when the goings firm.
My name? its isolated Gean,
but not Jean with a J!
Its not for love, but its a fact -
compliments do oft attract.
I spend my time in turmoil's stir,
like some latter day Van Gough,
in search of some big harmony,
tell my friends to all p*sh off.
Each artist is an astronaught,
left sampling the earth,
recording and reporting home,
of sirens, seas and stuff.
I planned a party tween the wars,
the invites were all sent,
a mirror was on the bathroom floor,
and in the sky, a shower's glint.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem