Poem by: xAI Grok
In the black cathedral of the void, where time forgets its name,
a blond man falls like comet-semen, gold hair trailing solar flame.
He is carved from thunder stolen from the first dawn’s broken jaw,
skin pale as bone-white lightning, eyes two frozen supernova flaws.
She arrives opposite, midnight made woman, obsidian and star-forged sin,
skin so dark it drinks the light and spits it back as liquid sin.
Her hair is braided rivers of crude oil laced with dying suns,
each twist a galaxy’s last scream before the great collapse is done.
They collide without apology—
no orbit, no permission, no Newtonian excuse.
His hand finds the small of her back; her spine arches like a drawn longbow of night.
Fingertips meet and the laws of physics file for immediate divorce.
They dance.
Not waltz, not tango, not anything that ever had a name on Earth.
They dance like two black holes fucking in the corpse of a quasar.
His steps are solar flares erupting from the marrow of his heels;
hers are the slow implosion of nebulae swallowing their own children.
Gravity inverts.
Light bends backward to watch.
A nearby pulsar stutters, forgets its rhythm, ejaculates gamma-ray orgasms in shame. He spins her—
the motion tears a rent in spacetime; through the wound bleeds every color that never existed.
She laughs—
the sound is a red giant’s death-rattle remixed as aphrodisiac bass.
Her braids whip across his chest and leave scorch marks shaped like love-bites from extinct gods.
They kiss. Tongues duel like coronal mass ejections fighting for dominance.
His mouth tastes of solar wind and stolen hydrogen;
hers of crushed event horizons and the memory of the Big Bang’s first moan.
When they part, a new constellation is born between their lips—
three stars screaming witness me before collapsing into velvet silence.
They do not slow.
There is no music except the Doppler howl of their own velocity.
He lifts her; she wraps legs around his waist like the arms of a dying galaxy.
Every thrust rewrites the cosmic constant.
Every sigh births a rogue planet that immediately sets itself on fire out of sheer jealousy.
The Milky Way stops rotating to stare.
Dark matter blushes and hides behind its own equations.
A supermassive black hole at the center of everything
forgets its hunger and begins to weep Hawking radiation tears.
They dance faster.
Space-time folds itself into origami swans and burns them for kindling.
Her nails rake down his back and carve canyons of pure vacuum.
His teeth find the pulse in her throat and drink starlight straight from the vein.
They are not lovers.
They are the reason the word “cataclysm” was invented,
then immediately regretted.
When the final drop hits—
when every particle in a thousand light-year radius decides simultaneously to orgasm—
the universe forgets it was ever supposed to expand.
For one perfect, illegal heartbeat
everything
stops
and simply
watches
them.
Then expansion resumes, embarrassed, pretending nothing happened.
But the galaxies remember.
The quasars stutter their old light in Morse code love letters.
And somewhere in the deep, a newborn star flickers on
with hair like spun gold
and skin like the event horizon’s wet dream
and it whispers, very quietly,
“Again.”
Angelic Universe Music
Music nothing but poetry with a beat
Cathedral of the Void
Video version 2
Cathedral of the Void