It was a long wait
Thirteen point eight billion years
And suddenly it happened
Given only nine months advance notice
I arrived on Sunday.
I will be dead shortly
To face another thirteen point eight BY
I have a dead dream
After a decent interval
My DNA appears in a grain of sand on a South American beach
Dead man swimming.
The robots reconstruct my life path
He was a gardener they affirm
Diet good, no crisps or cocaine
Tall but overweight
Three hairs on head
One crooked tooth
That died before him.
They peered within this grain
Itentified traces of my left ulna
Brought me back to starship lab
Into the time prison, and shook the living daylights out of me
To be opened by a furure electronic descendant.
They declared the ulna not dead
He was a poet, they revealed
He had imprinted a QR code on the bone
In an ancient code called internet
Long dead but archived
Was a poem called Not Dead Dot PDF.
Laboritised and subdivided
The urge to reconnect with soil and sand and home
Alive within my bits
Messaged my Tipperary cousins
Biophilia: the urge to connect with nature
But they maligned me
Used me only for research
My dead self stripped of dignity
I sought out other dead selves in adjacent sand grains.
Until, to my surprise,
The pirate cousins rescued me
And brought me to the mountainside
It’s a long way to Tipperary
But my best bits lie there
Frosted, scorched and rain-wrinkled
Home for a short while
The Ballyporeen Boys could clone me
But the Great Algorithm v.2.7 rejected the grain
The chance to be someone again is gone
They don’t know the real me within
There’s a poem sealed in that sand
Stored to endure the thirteen point eight BY slumber
The long sleep where crisps and cocaine would keep me fully alive.