PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Let me tell you about the planet, Shiranu---or

that is the name it is called in Terrancult

(meaning, unknown, from some Japanese

poet's Haiku or whatever they call it now).  The

planet's location is not commonly known, and it

has been long closed to the Spasons of Terrancult.

With gravity and atmosphere similar to earth's,

Shiranu's weather is always pleasantly temperate;

its soil very fertile, so that the planetary surface is

very, very green.  Between the vast tracts of

vegetable fields and flowerbeds---the whole thing

looks like a garden larger than any you have ever

seen---are paths naturally paved with a strange

stone, dark but somewhat translucent, which erosion or

some of other force has eroded to a smoothness more

perfect and durable than we have succeeded in producing.

Shiranu, as I have said, is closed to us---not even seem-beams

are deemed acceptible, and for reason which, if you cannot

guess, I will be happy to tell you.  The planet is inhabited by

humanoids who take the form, at adulthood, of

adolescent boys---long-haired, slender, whose faces

can express emotions more sensually provocative and

tender than any (and I mean, any) language can convey. 
These humanoids, or shall I call them homonoids, have a

distinct aversion to shoes (with the planetary surface

ccommodates) and, only for special events they will put on shirts;

mostly to receive diplomatic missions (in which, as I have told

you, the Terrancult is not, and probably never shall be, included. 

heir preferred garments are tights---footed and unfooted---

opaque, never sheer, but made of such formclinging fabric that

sheerness is really not needed, if you take my meaning. 

Their lifespan is said to encompass Terrancult centuries; and

alhough their considerable beauty is adolescent, each individual's

accumulated wisdom transcends that of a hundred Terrancult lifetimes. 

hey couple early, and remain monagmous. They do not impregnate

each other or become pregnant; how they reproduce---perhaps by

some kind of cloning---remains unexplained.  Among them, the

arts of highest esteem are Poetry and Astronomy, which they

consider to be two sides of one Art.  Within the planet's 

core, or in some hidden location, a most tremendous mechanical

complex apparently regulates many planetary functions.  Crops

are  harvested, and food is prepared, by means unknown; but not,

apparently, by the inhabitants---whose sole occupations seem to be

lovemaking, game-playing, verse-making, and star-watching. 

Water is provided by many natural springs and creeks; many decorative

lakes participate in the natural water cycle, but Shiranu dos not have

oceans.  The planet is shielded by several multi-layered forcefields, the

intensity of which has a range from insubtantial to immediately

lethal.  The planet's surface is patrolled by humanoid shaped robots,

faceless, tall, extremely agile despite their bulk, but immediately

reactive to any outside aggression.  I emphasize outside---

meaning from off-world---because crime, prejudice, hatred, and

fear are entirely unknown among Shiranu's inhabitants; although the 

controlling mechanism that operates the patrolers and the shields

apparently fears and hates the Terrancult.  We were informed, quite

soon after our first attempted contact, that Shiranu possessed a

sufficient arsenal of sophisticated weaponry with which to defend

against all intruders.  We attempted to send a derelict ship into the

planet's gravitationl fields, to feign distress, in order to elicit a

response:  the derelict was held by the field, and a transmission

issued from the planet on something far more powerful than

seem-beam, to retrieve our junk and permit no others to similarly

draw near.  They do not want our presence, our commerce, or

our knowledge:   they have no need of us, and they have the

power to enforce our compulsory absence.  And I can understand

their attitude, in a way.  My interest in that planet is,

I am not ashamed to admit, entirely masculine:  someone

needs to teach those pansies some masculinity.  How else will the

very real hostilities and difficulties of outerspace ever be conquered? 

But, I also admit---they read us very well, especially those of us, like

me, who are card-carriers of the Whyhoming Guilt.  Our urges, like, I

suspect, so many of the Terrancult's interplanetary population---

male and female---is that we want to fuck or piss on anything that

crosses our lines of sight.  Only in that way, our instincts insist,

can we mark, and retain, and defend our territories.

Starward