The Moon Isn't Renewing Her Virginity
The moon isn't renewing her virginity
in the snakepits of the hypocrites
faking the wavelengths of their radiance
like the black dwarf of an imploding commune
that flared out like graverobbers in the dark
desecrating a cemetery of rainbows.
I've watched the silver shovel of your tongue
go through all phases of the moon, from full
to new, as if you were laying your Tarot cards
out on the table for an autopsy on the Hanged Man.
This one's suspended by one leg with a real rope
around his neck. You're decked out in dreamcatchers
and spider silk like the butterfly bling of a pimp.
What are you selling? Peace, love, and happiness
at the expense of all else? You chirp you love everyone
but you've never loved people enough to learn
how to hate them honestly. There heretics burn
but you're attuned to harmony like a snaketongue
of black lightning is to a tuning fork or a lyre
to the laryngeal cords of a cheesecutter.
You're a wedding cake full of worms. You're
a wishbone with one hip lower than the other
like the short end of the stick, a black capped chickadee
on the lowest rung of the crutch. You emanate.
You radiate. You resonate. You alert
your sleeping brother like a fire alarm
to the god waking up within him, but you exclude,
you forget, you reject the real shamans
dancing in the shadows of their solitude with a limp.
If you cram any more beauty into your eyes
soon you'll be able to open a jewellery store.
God knows how you can love the silver
and hate the ore that poured itself out
like wine for you as if it were bleeding to death
like wild grapes going sour in your mouth.
There's more salvation in drinking
from your own skull, than sipping
like a hummingbird from someone else's grail.
You're just baling a moonboat with a black sail
and a bucket the bottom hasn't fallen out of yet.
Dew blooming on the tips of the tongues
of the stargrass, yes, but you can't conceive
of the watershed of the abyss it was drawn from.
Your moondogs don't snarl enough to guard
the farmyard from the predators that surround you.
You're water gilding Dachau with a silver lining
whenever you look at a black cloud pluming
into the night sky like a fumarole
of mystically unique people going up in smoke
and white wash the dark side of things
desecrating their suffering by remarking
how wonderful it is their ashes kiss your eyelids
like gentle snowflakes of human flesh and bone.
Your third eye's got a cinder in it like a stake
driven into the iris of a Cyclops. You denigrate
the black ops that rescued the rest of the flock
from the cave, like a shepherd moon
that's never known an eclipse it didn't resent.
The blood and dirt under the fingernails of the moon
aren't the terraced gardens of an Incan ruin.
If you're looking for a needle in a haystack
of sunbeams make sure you don't stick it in the eye
of that voodoo doll you carry around with you
like the strawdog of a scarecrow at a harvest ritual
that's eventually going to go up in heretical flames
like Joan of Arc, the witch, not the saint,
once her white magic grew irrationally ineffectual.
Most people look for the light to see in the dark.
Rinse the night from your mirroring consciousness
and you throw the stars out with the womb water
of Aquarius. In the urn of what's left, not
the translucency of self-cleaning jewels
as if your eyes were constantly buffing
their own windows with vinegar
and yesterday's newspaper full of atrocities
that wipe the filth like sunspots off your shining
like a patina of print on the faces of the chimney sweepers
scraping the creosote and shovelling the ashes
of the fireflies out of the furnace. Not enlightenment.
But the putrefied residue in the alembic of a bad alchemist,
trying to mine gold from lead like a thief of honey
from an ant heap of spectacles, and gleaming ingots of teeth.