CALLING DOWN THE MOON
All night it’s been barrelling down,
the rain
turning the lawn to a consommé of the Somme.
The rain is hammering
nails into the roof
doing its
little Shirley Temple number
on the
corrugated iron to a tune by Arnold Schoenberg.
It’s raining
pianos and golf clubs
and if you
went outside and opened your mouth
you’d drown,
because the whole soggy black sponge
of the sky
has turned into a clepsydra
that’s just
struck the once in a century.
Anyway, I’m
groping for the light switch in need of
a small hours
piss,
(yeah, I
know, Larkin – it’s a coincidence)
muttering
against the rain
and suddenly
there’s the full bloody moon
glaring at me
over the fence like a
disapproving
neighbour in the silvery halo
of a window
clearing, a bit battered and dented
but metal
clean, and hard and sharp like a razorblade.
gaunt moon
milk and
alabaster saucer moon
chalky
Cistercian moon
onion pearl
moon
clove of
garlic moon
egg of some
giant space monster moon
charnel
gorgon moon
sterile
sexless barren stone moon
Obviously the breathless rain had paused by this time
Everything is
silent.
Everything is
either smoke, dark blood or trembling argent
but what am I supposed to do with this unwanted
but what am I supposed to do with this unwanted
intruder,
pale from judging me so hard
glaring from
cushions the colour of blue roan cattle
chilly and
aloof and cosmic.
Fuck off full
Perrott Perilune
Oberon’s
horn, Astarte, Diana Artemis, Khonsu
Hecate,
Igaluk, Selene, Ataegina,
Máni' and friggity Jarilo,
Alglibol,
unpronounceable Tecciztecatl
Bendis, Sinhivala,
sayonara Tsukuyomi, and Arianrhod
Cerridwen and Rhiannon,
Morgana le Fay.
Máni' and friggity Jarilo,
Alglibol,
unpronounceable Tecciztecatl
Bendis, Sinhivala,
sayonara Tsukuyomi, and Arianrhod
Cerridwen and Rhiannon,
Morgana le Fay.
Go away
Libulan, Yemaya, Bahloo, Avatea.
Not tonight Hina-i-te-pō
of the land my dead are buried in.
No thank you ancestral Madb
scented with peat and water-mint.
Not interested familial Callieach
with a sprig of heather behind your ear.
Adieu pleine lune and your Dames Blanches
of fair, sweaty Norman forbears.
Not tonight.
Down with this sort of thing.
Not tonight Hina-i-te-pō
of the land my dead are buried in.
No thank you ancestral Madb
scented with peat and water-mint.
Not interested familial Callieach
with a sprig of heather behind your ear.
Adieu pleine lune and your Dames Blanches
of fair, sweaty Norman forbears.
Not tonight.
Down with this sort of thing.
Bald and wild
and bruised…
Moon. Spoon. June. Croon. Soon…
Moon. Spoon. June. Croon. Soon…
No,
I much prefer that sinful, in-between nail paring,
that sliver, battening on diamonds and jasmine flowers
to fatten up
I much prefer that sinful, in-between nail paring,
that sliver, battening on diamonds and jasmine flowers
to fatten up
jogging round the sky, puking rococo silver to slim down,
inconstant and fickle as we are,
a taught bow of fine-fibred, white, young wood
though I can’t bend and flex as supplely as that
these days,
the spoons wax and wane despite my
hiding it and there’s nothing warm or consoling
in moonlight, so what should I do with you moon?
Should I wash in moonlight with my mother’s soap
like in the story?
Should I hail you as an old friend and rub you
into my skin
like coconut-scented night cream, cold and lux?
I don’t like the thought
of you penetrating my ivory into my bone marrow,
I fear
you’d foment unwholesome rebellion among
my saintly white corpuscles.
like coconut-scented night cream, cold and lux?
I don’t like the thought
of you penetrating my ivory into my bone marrow,
I fear
you’d foment unwholesome rebellion among
my saintly white corpuscles.
So I’ll take
my piss
and maybe present you my western façade
a moon for the moon
and then I’ll see what happens when I address you
directly, pointing up at you and shouting “Moon!”
like a lunatic, barely articulate, “Moon!”
Will you “Moon!” reel back “Moon!”
in “Moon!” startled amazement, moon,
“Moon!” even as I am amazed at you, moon,
will you stare in surprise
all one tarnished ghost eye, moon?
Will you blink with the whole of your creamy body
inscrutable moon?
and maybe present you my western façade
a moon for the moon
and then I’ll see what happens when I address you
directly, pointing up at you and shouting “Moon!”
like a lunatic, barely articulate, “Moon!”
Will you “Moon!” reel back “Moon!”
in “Moon!” startled amazement, moon,
“Moon!” even as I am amazed at you, moon,
will you stare in surprise
all one tarnished ghost eye, moon?
Will you blink with the whole of your creamy body
inscrutable moon?
You bloody big bobbing white morning glory,
would you be shocked
like a watchmaker the smallest fidget wheel
has started talking back to
moon?
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