Re: Poetic Corner (for the Artist in us)
IT WAS A BLUE, BLUE MOON
Our desolate, far-flung city
hung as endless and true as a corpse,
with its pitiful ruins lit dim with a hue
and shaded by a still and eternal blue moon.
All days remained as night
as all my veins were drained
inside of our ancient cemetery
of crazed adoration and theft.
My love and I, we catch such tired eyes
as she marches long and soldier-like
through the hard lines of men, or machines
I cannot tell the difference.
This cruel indifference, in the days of my youth,
was the one thing out of all which I could not bare,
and so I grabbed her hand before it dared to fade.
I kissed its poor and lovely back in a wanton glory,
and then the blood began to draw.
First it came in sparse, trickled beads through her tiny pours.
Then in a thickening, red flood of deep rose
that emerged from out of her dainty little fingers and wrists,
spilling out with a sickening sound upon the cobblestone night
and upon my weary naked feet.
The city ground was fed and satisfied with our gift,
and from there the broken things beneath would begin to grow.
My soul was without a dam to break, or to hold
the slow flood of my own horrified heart
from those cold, and endless streets.
Such was the life,
lit by the mocking blue of our eternal moon
as it shone true and forever upon my scarred back.
I walked out my years amongst the trash cars
the filthy casket bars, and the tombstone alleys,
with my ears echoing mad with piercing screams
of crazed souls howling into the depths.
This cruel, primitive metropolitan war waged on
and we came to don perfect suits of broken bottle
and sinful, rusty tin for our new skins.
Time then ran with the jet plane,
with the faint streak of a lonely comet,
far above our little beds and the prayers never said,
far and farther beyond the expectations of our scaled minds.
Like magic, the wrinkles and folds encased our shells,
and my mistress of life, she would smile so vicious,
the paint flaking in course stabs from her stone cheeks.
Skin and bones we were as we made sorrowful love,
starved and dreary, decadent but strong,
hanging bleak and solemn, bitterly wise in our place
within that eternal blue after-glow,
of a lost planet which we determined as but a ghost.
Without any guilty intent, or foolish hindrance
without any resistance to fate and its inevitable wing,
we fell lightly and relieved into death's eternal good sleep
with smiles jointly from ear to ear upon the ancient cemetery plain.
Happier than the wine of our best years,
bolder than the lions of our dreamy Serengeti,
we fell deep from our broken city of crazed adoration and theft,
fading from the blue to the purple, and back, back
deepening into a final black.
And we felt more peace than we ever had
for the long, longest time.