Quartered moons - what a playlist
Full moon and a trio of cats will run
past me wearing wreaths of green roses
and their feet will snap in unison
and I will feel conscious of my entirely misshapen
eyes.
I desire the eyes of ponies.
I have the eyes of peonies.
Quarter moon and
I will be overrun by a gypsy more comfortable
in turquoise glitter than I will ever be.
One that waltzes in Elizabethan cotton nightgowns.
I want something sour and bitter
that reflects the flittering gravy.
Half moon and I will return to my city
under the milken sky
drenched in nylon and velour
dripping laughterlets.
There will be no maximum.
There will be no counter space.
There will be no hexagons. I am alive.
Three quarters moon and she is
across the road with that boy who lives
across the road
and they will be content in their tin can
until he tries to eat the halves of plums
and they splice his hand in two.
New moon is no moon.
Please fall in love with me.
Full moon and a trio of cats will run
past me wearing wreaths of green roses
and their feet will snap in unison
and I will feel conscious of my entirely misshapen
eyes.
I desire the eyes of ponies.
I have the eyes of peonies.
Quarter moon and
I will be overrun by a gypsy more comfortable
in turquoise glitter than I will ever be.
One that waltzes in Elizabethan cotton nightgowns.
I want something sour and bitter
that reflects the flittering gravy.
Half moon and I will return to my city
under the milken sky
drenched in nylon and velour
dripping laughterlets.
There will be no maximum.
There will be no counter space.
There will be no hexagons. I am alive.
Three quarters moon and she is
across the road with that boy who lives
across the road
and they will be content in their tin can
until he tries to eat the halves of plums
and they splice his hand in two.
New moon is no moon.
Please fall in love with me.