I can't hold down a job any more
you have swallowed me with your lips of sawdust
I can't go to work
because you stole the moon
I didn't know a pair of jeans could hold galaxies so well
so wet, the moon now.
I'm going to cut you up into little pieces, because I love you.
It's going to take a long time, but it will definitely be worth it
Because then I can go to work.
I want to rest the ball of my foot on the moon. Balance.
Don't look at me like that.
The last thing I will eat are your chandelier eyes.
4 comments:
Oh my, oh me... um sorry - didn't mean to steal it. Here's your moon back. Now get to work!
Ah, raven, if only it was that simple...
True - true. I'm not sure what to do with those swallowing lips of sawdust. I can give back a stolen moon, but I can't undo a swallowing.
Raven, anyone who approachs poetry with any poetic sensibility of their own knows that moons can and can't be given back, swallowings can be both done and un-done, that poetically everything is possible and impossible. You are a philistine, an American Pragmatist. Yes, I know you don't know what pragmatism means. And yes, I know you won't bother to find out. Your flippant, lazy comments are out of place on this blog. Stop stalking me. Because that's what you are doing. Leave me alone. I have zero interest in you.
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