They pass a dwarf star around like a bottle of rum

from hand to hand. Each one taking a mouthful

gurgles then laughs out loud in their liquor-breaths.

Skinhead pulsars, ringing their body piercing,

practice planetary marshal arts—

ma mekom saranam,

ma mekom saranam.

Half-empty, half-full, the dwarf is seduced

by the spell of their foul mouths.

Their unwrapped breasts flare in the gaseous light.

Copper shackles dazzle from their unzipped nebulas.

Steel knives flash like supernovae.

Finished, they toss him away like a used-up blackbody.

Inside their ill-lit skulls, a dwarf star is