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 bulls hit, 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, haunting 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.
Me in Paradise
Oh, to be ready for it, unfucked, ever-fucked. To have only one critical eye that never divides a flaw from its lesson. To play without shame. To be a woman who feels only the pleasure of being used and who reanimates the user's anguished release in a land for the future to relish, to buy new tights for, to parade in fishboats. To scare up hope without fear of hope, not holding the hole, I will catch the superbullet in my throat and feel its astounding force with admiration. Absorbing its kind of glory. I must be someone with very short arms to have lost you, to be checking the windows of the pawnshop renting space in my head, which pounds with all the clarity of a policeman on my southernmost door. To wish and not jinx it: to wish and not fish for it: to wish and forget it. To ratchet myself up with hot liquid and find a true surprise. Prowling the living room for the lightning, just one more shock, to bring my slow purity back. To miss you without being so damn cold all the time. To hold you without dying otherwise. To die without losing death as an alternative. To explode with flesh, without collapse. To feel sick in my skeleton, in all the serious confetti of my cells, and know why. Loving you has made me so scandalously beautiful. To give myself to everyone but you. To luck out of you. To make any other mistake.