the celestial club
pops into existence
lie in a field and measure it with a ruler
every hour it grows
a rosy view of the future
< stifle a yawn >
those few snatched moments
watching the grass grow
the future ain't what it used to be
social isolation vacuum packed zero-point energy crunch snap rip fade
and then the male nipple
busy doing nothing . . .
Fifteen phrases, some adapted, plus the addition of four extra words to expand the title, served to make the above poem-construct and can be found on fifteen different pages in Nothing (266pp) if anyone with nothing better to do feels so inclined.
Nothing is edited by Jeremy Webb and published by New Scientist-Profile Books (ISBN 978-1846685187).