Moon Before the Horizon

When we are so close our lips are almost touching and we can feel our breaths, those warm giants, lighting fires, luminaries with smiles big enough to light dark waiting rooms, I feel the tidal surges of rapture, cylinders full in my pores, as if I could come alive with a prescription of your sour kisses. In your Times Square, a Tabgha too real to be true, each moon has a deeper meaning. I'm touching and believing. Can feel the brass winds in my ears like victories, like leeches, a creek full of silver bullets. I hear the cry of lost memories I tap into when no one else is around and I can hear the midday footsteps of someone crying as they sold their diamonds, coins in my pocket, and I remember them like the exploding sound of Atlantis when it was swallowed by the esurient sea, before Andrew married and moved to Connecticut and took my heartbeats. Shifting melodies. When there is nothing else to do but think, I look at life through a magnifying glass. I look at every last brushstroke, shapes and shadows. I fold my memories of a past life and tuck them in the back of my brain with loved atoms and dying dreams, all the seeds I've sown and memories of the people I've known, passion filled lamps. Body electric. Not temperate. 

Hanging planets                                                                                                                                                                                                Energies rushing

The sun is burning into the right side of my face and I am happy inside. After my siesta, I am a cruiser in Rio Vista. At flower shops, at reserved tables, by a blazing fire with my back to the breaking of the fourth wall, the photos of a time I can't forget. The spell I had been under for so long has been broken, finally. I take long routes instead of shortcuts, wanting more out of the days. Admiring the postcard scene from the rolled up window. Television images are on the dashboard, the foundation I rely on, the shoulder of a generation growing up too fast in a white hot fog to stop and follow the arc of the rainbow. I see the ever present sea changes and unreliable narrators dancing in moon puddles. 

Hanging planets                                                                                                                                                                                                Energies rushing

Angel tears land on milkskin. Raindrops in vacant parking lots. My dreams in an afterlife disappear with the moonrise as bright as Heaven, white topaz. Unwashed, days of being fainéant are one-way tickets to Apollyon, and I get that dizzy feeling of falling into excursions into the wild when I push my work to the side. I step into vacuums, endless space, in a lonely daze. I find myself by bloom estates running from tigers ready to pounce, the ticking of a pocket watch, when summer has gone and the leaves have fallen. I hurry like the Loire, stepping closer into the longest darkness. The inner voice I contain tells me there's nothing I can do. I am blue and moving forward. Diffusing and woven into the fabric of eternal paradise, wanting a cake-sized piece of you.

I need you like you're my morpheme, how else could I possibly breathe? With the door open I hear muffled voices, phantoms of the witching hour, winkled out of loose mouths, looking for somewhere to land, like smoke in the eye or thoughts in the head, or a spoon in a bowl of rhubarb and custard. It makes no difference to me what is being said. I would rather walk away than watch a river burst its bank, or perish like Giuseppe Verdi dragging the sea foam. Being persistent. We are magnets to happiness. Capable mudlarks. Sotweed Factors.

Hanging planets                                                                                                                                                                                                Energies rushing

I went all the way to the perimeter, to the end of the blackened sky, convinced it wasn't Sisyphean, but you were nowhere to be found. I was informed, transparent, resolute, stultified and mendicant, rubbing my knees shiny with stones. Playing the game and spinning from the rush. At unrivalled velocities. Wishing I could turn back time and change things. I am ornate with a myriad of surreal visions. Seemingly full. Drinking from the fountain of youth. Riptides. Dazzled by blurred lines. I carry the milestone, to moonscapes and back. Thunderstruck by the witchcraft of Asmodeus. I am a single rose on a grave. Withering away. With marshmallow clouds trapped in my mouth and trying to break out like the sun in the morning, I'm breathing like snow and shining like wet metal. Invoking godsends. In my tabernacle with a view to living.      

Hanging planets                                                                                                                                                                                                Energies rushing

Game lured into Ymir's hands covered in black newsprint. I make waves with my cursive penmanship. Resting on the wall of sanity for leverage. I dream of Donatello. I dream of Michelangelo. I dream of the day this will be over, and I'll be free from the pain of living. As free as Amaretto or a butterfly. As free as a kitsune with nine tails. As free as whey at Woodstock or clouds seen from Daubigny's Garden. As free as this year's migration. Walking past men with long arms, country houses and billboards. I amble through brown acres, over yellow fields. Past wandering eyes of judgement. The sunlight is reflecting on the calm waters after the footslog. I'm heading homewards before the rainfall.