Moon

CLEAR NIGHT

Clear night, thumb-top of a moon, a back-lit sky.
Moon-fingers lay down their same routine
on the side deck and the threshold, the white keys
and the black keys.
Bird hush and bird song. A cassia flower falls.

I want to be bruised by God.
I want to be strung up in a strong light and singled out.
I wanted to be stretched, like music wrung from a dropped seed.
I want to be entered and picked clean

And the wind says “What?” to me.
And the castor beans, with their little earrings of death,
say “What?” to me.
And the stars start out on their cold slide through the dark.
And the gears notch and the engines wheel.

(Clear Night, by Charles Wright)

First discovered this poem on Amy Jo Sprague’s blog. The second stanza ‘throes’ me. Re-re-re-read. Like the title, the light/dark tango of it which I grew to love in the paintings of Magritte. Second stanza: re-read.

Full moon recently. Pulls in more ways than one:

TRAMP

I want to feel your nose in my lips
your nails in my flesh
your teeth on my hips
your breath in my face
your tongue –
wherever it fits…

I want to feel your dick in my ass
you come in my throat
you spit on my skin
your balls beat me raw…
your hand pin me down

and Master me

Freak? Me?

I want to hear you moan
groan
whimper
I want to see pain on your face
delight
abandon
release…

Rough me
ride me to a froth
burn me
whip me with your Man till
I spit blood

And I?

Will bathe you with the purity
of my softest womanhood
till I
oil you
rim
purring with gratitude…

But first, you polish me
if you want to see my genie

If you want to see me shine.

(from, The Red Room by Joan Barbara Simon)

Joan stays locked in when the moon’s out. Need I say why? And no, it doesn’t wear off with age. It gets worse, cos you’re still interested but who’s still interested in you? I’ve been giving my ex-wives tips on how to pull a bloke on the internet. So much for you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. If I were twenty years younger, I’d open a brothel for senior citizens of both sexes, say seventy and upwards. These mature specimens of the human animal’ve got the finish line in sight, cash in their pockets, assorted ailments to forget, if only for that moment… and ungrateful brats as offspring. Above all, thirst. It’d be a runner. Especially with the women. With my neighbour for starters. I’m not taken in by her impenetrable purple rinse, her 40den tights, the orthopedic shoes or the slight limp, she’s no nice-nelly, take my word for it; course, no one’s been near her labia minora for decades but she was a real old slag in her day. Brittle hips weren’t her problem back then, I know a few who’ll vouch for that! When she did what she termed the fandango on your ramrod guess what else she clung to, calling them her castanets? Said she had him steaming like a horse after a hard race. The way she looks at me even today. Teeth tarnished. Slack wet slit where her mouth should be. Gives me the creeps. She’d pay. Bet she would.

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