The stars don't care about aspirations Ascetic or saintly Wan faced or painted faintly. The stars don't care who reaches Or stoops, who grasps or plucks Who drinks or shoots or fucks. No, the stars are absolute: They 'Are', they exist - They splutter and gutter and fizz. Some flame out, some implode; Yet others burn steadily, Hang dark matter heavily From sky hooks Through bad looks And hard years endure. The stars are mindless oinks. There is no point in telling This hell or that heaven To go take a hike, Or make it towards the light Or involve them in the desires Of wretched artists Who concern themselves With minutiae, I tried to tell ya Per aspera ad astra Is doomed to failure. None of us know how to Really make it happen Anyway.