I
Tales about lost youth, and its necessary lessons of disillusion. Almost. Except that I’d have to convey them for now in graphic works and petty blogging. I need an owl. A tattoo. Yes. Soon. I’ve been your regular poultry in motion for some time, true. What accounts for bravery these days? If I listen to my body well enough, it’ll only say the loudest thing: A daring call to roll in the hay. Let’s make love to the moon then, shall we? We all feel a bit expired from time to time. We need an orbiting intention. Intensively and intensely. I feel like I achieve more during the night. It’s not an exaggeration since I purposely let her rule me at nightfall. She shines just to pick on the condition of this sloppy, pounding soul. Yes, she shines bright like a vagina.
Here’s for the inhabitants of the dark. The brewing witches, in their friendless and profane places. For those in need of a cure for drunkenness. Whatever the intoxicant might be. Alcohol, curses, despair, light, egos, strange bedfellows, falsehood and dead losses, anything in-between the proverbial sandwich.
II
The moon. Such an enigma, wrapped in a riddle surrounded by drunks. Drunks like you and me. Perhaps there is a latchkey somewhere. She is my ultimate spaceship. She watches me and never turns her back for anything. Not even your battle dress. She pries at the right distance. Enough to obscure the almighty sun perfectly. Consequently feeding the shadow of this bitter, bitter heart. What love. Fly me to the moon. I’m tired of waiting. This is not the commonwealth. Hoot.
– C