Liam Murray

Poets biography

The Death of Neil de Grasse Tyson


The birds deliver their mating calls.

The Sun continues to burn.

And the World churns

As Neil de Grasse Tyson awakens

On the terminator line separating

The darkened and illuminated halves

Of the planet,


He then rises, and

Proceeds downstairs

To the kitchen,

To go about his

Morning routine;


His toast is toasted.

His coffee is caffeinated.


All is as it is.


And as it is


Is all as it should be.


He whispers to himself, sensing a tweet –


Until, he looks down and discovers the:


U –


N –


I –


V –


E –


R –


S –


E –


Written out at the bottom of his bowl

Of Alphabeti Spaghetti!


This is it,


He declares,


It’s End Times,



Sweating in panic,

He realises that, actually,

The mating calls form a

Morning Chorus,

And that the Sun, actually, rises

And that it is, actually, glorious.


Neil de Grasse Tyson’s body,

Now spread-eagled on the floor,

Is illuminated,

Albeit actually,

Splattered in tomato gravy

And pasta text.


The professor drags himself

To the bathroom

And bolts the door;

Rocking back and forth,

At the bottom of

His Meteor Shower,

(Now flooding over,

The Alphabetti clogging up

The drain).


He whispers, in prayer;


I Fucking Love Science,


I Fucking Love Science,


I Fucking Love Science…


Until he begins to feel the fullest force of gravity, somehow stronger,

Isolated and tightening his chest,

With the sense of his eyes looking impossibly inwards,

But, actually, seeing nothing.


I Fucking Believe,


I Fucking Believe,


I Fucking Believe in…


He whimpers;


Glowing. Expansive. And close to death.


                                      Like a Red Giant.


All is as it is.


And as it is


Is all as it should be.


But, actually