Sorting the Black from the Grey from the White

The first day dawned and I awoke bored,
conceptualising the innovation of the universe,
I took the tweezers from my bathroom
and poked them into the black hole and pulled,
with a squelching pop a new planet squeezed through,
grasped firmly between metal pinchers,
[this god’s final rue].

That night I slept soundly, resting in my holy bed,
a four-poster to be precise with nets hanging limply,
to kill with vengeance of their useless use of fashionable progress,
the other god’s taunted my rogue abilities,
and I laughed in their single face,
a conforming society.

On the rise of the second day I reshaped this new earth,
made it an imaginative irregular shape
to confuse the neighbouring aliens and gods alike.
I took the blood from my body
and created the finest oceans to be concise,
the splinters of my bones became the core,
and my skin the crust of which to lie softly upon in midday warmth.
As afternoon abruptly took my assumed strength
I dozed in the knowledge of a job being well done,
a purity of spirit becoming a completion of extremity in the midst of allusion.

From the third day I created the skies, mountains, and vegetation,
spoke to the still air and breathed life into a wind,
stood back and admired my divine handiwork,
and laughed at the other attempts of creation beside my workbench,
worlds built of destruction and avant-garde gravitational suction,
made on the tacky construction of beyond postmodern resurrection.
I love my new world.

The fourth day spoke to me of life and living,
a new species of movement here, a predator with prey there,
my world is self-sufficient, worthy of no god,
and sacred beyond the realms of the universe.

On the fifth day I stood back,
stepped over the boundaries outside existence
and looked on in awe of my new conception,
made adjustments and rearrangements to ensure satisfaction,
trimmed rough edges and embellished others,
and went to bed early to ensure a successful sixth day
to finalise my design and original innovation.

A bluing sun rose on the sixth day,
and I made my only mistake in this wonder,
I placed man upon my world, made from synthetic material,
and the plastic started the poison to envelop perfection.
But after all, how can one know perfection without imperfection?
I acknowledged my error but left it to learn from,
and endure the first failure of paradise and lost virginal faith.
The others gods stood back and gasped at my handiwork,
congratulated my conceptualisation,
and called this new movement of creation – postconceptualism.
I smiled and accepted this repositioning of stature,
sat with my smile in my hands,
and my satisfaction sitting on my knee.
A four poster bed shrouded with vengeance
has never been so well thought and abused as on the sixth night,
so I slept with peaceful thought on mind and dreamt of creation.

And on the seventh day I rested,
and sorted the black from the grey from the white.