Moon Closed
With
how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb’st the skies!
– Philip Sidney
The moon’s a
village drunkard
creeping
through the hedgerow
leaking down Mary Magma Lane
on a slow progress
like a yellowing
piss stain through
the pants of a tramp
to pavement
on some stations of the doss …
No stop!
Poor lump of
rock, take the night off.
Just for
tonight, moon, we’ll leave you alone,
free cinema
of stone, projected to death
with all our
pathetic fallacies and super-calla
solipsistic self-reflexive
notions,
scribbled with
werewolves and blood,
tortured by literary
devices.
What have
you not been? - fingernail,
sickle, orange,
eye, pizza pie …
crooned to,
quilled and fetishized
like a piece
of cheese in the hands of Benn Gunn
I know you
pine, moon, for once
to be a
thing uncompared, unsignified,
unashamed to
be nothing but what you were
before you
were something, before man
gave name to
all the planets
(‘in the
beginning, long time ago’).
I love you
moon, to you and back,
which is why
I think it’s healthy to take
a break, so
just for tonight no more baying
of breakfarthious
odes
just for
tonight, moon, bathe alone
naked in a
pool of your own
unmolested yellow
delight
untroubled by
post-prandial perambulators
poets and perverts
skinny
dippers and midnight trippers
just for
tonight draw a cloud
over yourself
like a curtain
on a rented Amsterdam
alleyfront sex
shop
transact
what you will, madame,
in the
privacy of your own boudoir
au clair de
la lune …
(though, sorry
once more.
To ‘madame’ you
is again to objectify).
Let madmen
howl elsewhere
at the rice maggots
in their eyes
let lovers send
selfie dick pics
and find
love in other drugs.
Just for
today we pick on someone
our own size.
Now where’s the sun?
waxing lyrical Tug
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