sábado, 16 de julho de 2016

Poem time

I don’t like what the moon is supposed to do. 
Confuse me, ovulate me, 

spoon-feed me longing. A kind of ancient 
date-rape drug. So I’ll howl at you, moon, 

I’m angry. I’ll take back the night. Using me to 
swoon at your questionable light, 

you had me chasing you, 
the world’s worst lover, over and over 

hoping for a mirror, a whisper, insight. 
But you disappear for nights on end 

with all my erotic mysteries 
and my entire unconscious mind. 

How long do I try to get water from a stone? 
It’s like having a bad boyfriend in a good band. 

Better off alone. I’m going to write hard 
and fast into you, moon, face-fucking. 

Something you wouldn’t understand. 
You with no swampy sexual 

promise but what we glue onto you. 
That’s not real. You have no begging 

cunt. No panties ripped off and the crotch 
sucked. No lacerating spasms 

sending electrical sparks through the toes. 
Stars have those. 

What do you have? You’re a tool, moon. 
Now, noon. There’s a hero. 

The obvious sun, no bullshit, the enemy 
of poets and lovers, sleepers and creatures. 

But my lovers have never been able to read 
my mind. I’ve had to learn to be direct. 

It’s hard to learn that, hard to do. 
The sun is worth ten of you. 

You don’t hold a candle 
to that complexity, that solid craze. 

Like an animal carcass on the road at night, 
picked at by crows, 

taunting walkers and drivers. Your face 
regularly sliced up by the moving 

frames of car windows. Your light is drawn, 
quartered, your dreams are stolen. 

You change shape and turn away, 
letting night solve all night’s problems alone.

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