A galaxy is growing in my bin,

whilst comets crash into the Chinese rug, 

a blackhole bobs beside the biscuit tin,

and minute moons revolve around a mug.

The white dwarf in the fridge could curdle cream,

spacetime inside the dryer steals some socks,

a wormhole warps the washing; starts to steam,

as pulsars tick-off time like cuckoo clocks.

A silky milkyway sleeps in my sink,

and teacup constellations mesmerise,

my biro bursts with interstellar ink,

bijou suns burn the bedding as they rise.

Small asteroids smash seaside souvenirs,

Grand music plays in quaint domestic spheres.