That son of a bitch moon is staring at me
right through my window onto my desk
and I know you're looking in on me
with his xray-through-my-mind eyes
and your particulate connection with him.
Fine - watch me at this god forsaken hour
as I shift about and read endlessly
the garbage that is Kurt Vonnegut's
thrown away baby in a bag on Sunday.
Help yourself to my idle fury of thirst,
the desire to create and call it something
that most people will never remember
until I've gone too far, but in a nice way -
the desire for immortality in your reflections.
I insist you watch this torment of insomnia
and overdone curiosities as the ashtray grows.
Shine in and put me down to sleep;
never forgive a sin I keep
make me sweat and make me squirm
so that I always know the way home
to love that I can not be without -
there, I've said it and now the walls have fallen
and the windows have broken.
Put your god damned moon to bed
and walk in from the north,
over the rubble that was
all that I had put together
and call me names,
"Asshole!" loudly so we wake
ourselves up from the kindness of love.
There are no apologies for independence;
it's the new darkness fallen upon the world -
the insistence on separation chic.
screaming at low volumes
