Moon sick,
the falling star forgets the wish,
the wish forgets the beat,
the beat forgets the drum,
the drum forgets the ghost.

Moon sick
Blood moon
The moon bleeds
Through the cracks in the stratosphere
Each missile reaches
Each missile pollutes
Each missile cracks the ozone.
It’s hard to be whimsical in times like these
Children’s limbs bleed through the screen
Like the moon bleeds through the stratosphere
Like these words bleed through to you.

Moon sick
The rainbow sings a mountain
The mountain catches a cloud.
The cloud catches a whisper,
Holds it in till a torrential release
The whisper of revolutions remembered by a street corner,
Stolen by a right angle that was
Created by a jack boot.
We left those corners to the jack boots long ago.
We shut the doors to escape the wind.
And the deafening sound of crickets.
There used to be poetry
Now even the cicadas are on beat.
My feet are still as I soak myself
To the bone

Moon sick,
as quiet as a lion,
as warm as a sun,
as wedgy as a piece of cheese,
bigger than a doormat,
as strong as an ant,
as cadmium red as a sunset,
as colonial as bread,
as expansive as yeast,
a rising star,
falling slowly,
hanging out with mars in the west,
a blinking red light,
an angel in the candle flame,
a black candle,
a black cloud
a portal,
a loophole,
a spiralling heart that breaks it’s cage.

Moon sick
A serpent eats her tail
The past feeds into now
The universe expands
Abusive words fall like water
I could drink them all and still be thirsty
A giant drops a limb

Moon sick.
Painting crimson in deep blue.
Remembering myself, when I walked out on those hills with nothing but the whispers from the trees,
like a Ronin,
like an outcast,
like a light bringer,
bright like the moon with eyes as dark as the sky.
I’m drawing circles and calling the stillness to dance.

Moon sick, don’t let angels, poets or fortune cookies fool you, Epiphanies are just dreams originating from button factories, there are still fuckers making excuses for the bombs and they are on the front page of the news. Murderers write the news but I write the bigger story of how they begged the daemons to release their names only to be turned into Disney tiddlywinks that they give away at supermarkets. Every plastic toy is an embedded journalist really, Lex Luther the magician, Lois Lane the patriot, the tiddlywink the storm trooper barbie.

A week of signs

A yellow leaf falling in front of the waxing quarter moon
Reminding me of the seed pods that spiral downward in the spring.
How the economists in tear gas blue hate the word downwards, shaking dollar filled fists at falling leaves, waterfalls and meteorites
A flickering star reminds me of a cave where you see stars in the daytime.
The daytime moon guided me home.
Its all downwards from here to the multi coloured fire.
My heart.

Sound the alarm.
London bridge is falling down.
The bricks are rotten.
The paint is flaking.
Let us sit on the ground whilst the churches burn.
The scriptures are encoded in the blankets.
Here is where he met her at the well.
He bent down to wash her feet.
He annointed her head with engine oil.
The tides control the moon and we’re all too moon sick today to go to work.
Barefoot with frozen toes we will burn the metaphors yellow to keep ourselves warm. Sap is bleeding as the trees wait for Persephone to arrive with Hades heart.

The pages of the book of forgiveness are too thin to cornerfold
and read like dishonest nonsense.
I’m too lazy to solve puzzles or cross t’s and rests rest in the middle between two bars, the prettiest black rectangle of them all.
Off beat we could dance like loons under the moon,
or sit in silence as the olive trees burn.
Either way the hangover is the same.