The Drunken Moon

Mar 31, 2008

In the dirt we emerged. Fresh from the weeds of sex, yet clean like my laundry on your washing line. Slowly progressing into the sea, the salty water entering my nostrils while you watch me with little left to bare. The softest skin pressed against me while my area goers say “Wow, look at that love,” with shifty eyes you dodge the calibres of bullets flying one, two, three. This side of the moon looks lovely against the fickle romances of never-say-never lovers but selfish we hog the pretty side and watch as the seeds begin to sprout. Sleep seems appropriate but it dares not cage us tonight for a pop of a no-doze makes the doze run back to its corner with her tail between her legs. Your presence dims my pain and makes me bold like a chainsaw. How do I repay the happiness of my soul when I can only afford daisies? Allow me to gnaw on your moon, its cheesy complexion tasting like rainbows and buttercups and a bed left unmade. The time travels in my sock where the slow tick-tock disturbs little old ladies smiles but makes my stutter controllable and your sadness edible. We sail between the clouds, recalling the days spent in spring descent and irrational desire for the alphabet and a recant of our A, B, C’s. It’s a funny thing to watch your hair grow, then shrink again, bringing images of a new shirt in the wash, pull the timer now before it gets to cold and we never get to wear the cotton sleeves on our sunburnt arms. I fall into a deep dream, derailing your beauty into fragments of evolution and marriage. Take this, take me, take the queen, take the king. My days and dirt now belong to you, remember that before my sober words take charge. Days and dirt, dirt and days.