The seed twitches. It has to. Sixty years on in the script, that particular plot thickened into my spaceship´s curdled Bortsch soup while our captain and lovely she sang their myxolydian,” high – art – how -are -you?”
Shy, still dreadfully young, of course, theologian Johannes Kepler had arrived in ” My Mamma´s-A- Witch” interspace dog-cart at my intragalctic sluice ( Heaven´s planetary leps still far ahead in this canophile´s future )
; I had to pay for the good eight dogs´ astro-taxi, proving how impossibly uvular Swabians behave, actually .
The seed sighs. Bubble, young, troubled extraplanetary professor´s chalk-on-our-N.A.S.A.-blackboard , bemused young gynophobe our – on that evening- bedoggled Johannes .
Take space-time off .
Metaphors or adjectives, in truth, time – travel killeth.Imagine starry Kant who´d have throttled at first warning an astronaut´s quickie in our module ? Which student taught them two chance-theory? Slurp the Bortsch , all eight taxi-dogs ; a long way it surely is ye´ve rocketed from around Jupiter´s lunatics . We´ll suppose that Kepler´s and Kant´s seed-sighing did unite ; well, what offspring of which female pilot admits to immortal longings while whooshing planets are hurling by our small modular windows in astonishment ? “He´s NOT here!” was the Soviet statement that settled that at the time!
Real truth was seldom hidden by Johannes Kepler´s dog-taxi equations eg.Newton´s gynophob = his own kynophob ? Yes, I did pay that unshaven Swabian astronomer´s astronomic taxi-bill ; yes, our captain was aft in the engine-room. And future generations will hymn her , will call her Stella .The seed sings , it makes no mention of any taxi-astrohounds raping their food tin that was warped by General Relativity on that astral occasion of my starry conception. Ex Oriens, unshaven Kepler, as yet no Newton praying for the sinners´ parabola.
Once upon a time I was nothing, not even space-travel dog-soup! ( It´s all the wrong people travel by taxi up there nowadays ) . Mind how you hymn the equations. Who will stir the Bortsch pot for eight Stuttgart shuttle-hounds? Quick now , we have but a second. Ease her back on Jupiter´s solstice fierce, throttle in your left; never mention words like “scrotum”, or ” space-coffin” again on our ship while I´m still at hatch number one extracting an odd Swabian astronomer out of his ” My Mammy Is No Witch” canelingual interplanetary taxi.
There were no Catholic dogs in Kepler´s eight-pack that night as I fumbled for small change for his enormous taxi-bill . Bay uvular Swäbisch, cosmic taxi-pups after rescuing Kepler´s Swabian Ma from burning , quantum seconds after my own conception in the rocket-hold. Twitches seed ? Sings seed ? Or why should travel burn all our metaphors to a Von Braun Frazzle ? Hymn her what ? Kant´s starry tent over a Stuttgart sky and her ” yes ” to Terrific Captain Startrek´s quickie charm while stirring Bortsch in a narrow space-cabin.
Steiger ! Down ! Hush, Puppy von Braun ! Wait your turn, Prancer and Dancer and Black Pup and Sky-Keeper´s off-spring, the Basker Twins! Eat Your Bortsch ! Sons and mothers worship module images: He and She and Our Captain´s Feinty Foot-work, fusing their galactic Bortsch and their quickie-seed at high velocities. From where comes this comets´ soup ? Whooshed detritus is our mysterious preterite and our future fumus, our Swabian Werner von Braun horizon all awash, aglow, awhoosh, a-Swab , ah Stuttgart, eight dogs pulling Kepler´s taxi , bound for my stratospheric home that night as Jupiter glowed and the captain, my future father, was down on the sack at her back. Plying my business.