Moon Landing All The Way

I have intentions of sobriety

Until then it is the anxiety that rises

Trembling hand, sweat at the temples and tears in the throat

My eyes droop with indifference

But if you had ever tasted it, you would at once recognise the blind black siphon that makes its bed in the solar plexus

Tightening the bones beneath your chest until they knock against one another, then climbing to your mouth

Leaving your pale, cold lips mute with terror.

You left and I stayed.

Often I miss you, and I do as you did.

Marbles at the bottom of my pockets,

little worlds cobbled together from bits and pieces,

sized for Playmobil hands,

earrings, and plastic diamonds.

Look at the buildings below. Puddles catch red reflections; the mirror clouds over and the night is elsewhere. An aquarium between the towers. The ground turns away, becomes a tunnel. Cars drift by. Sweets everywhere. Perhaps it is disappearing.

Perhaps everything is disappearing.

From the working-class cradle of the workers’ tongue, all I remember is the dignity of duty. Of memory, it seems I have only fear left, the threat of the hardships endured before me by the fallen ghosts of the working crowd.

Before my eyes lies the space where heavy recollections remain, alone before me.

Where the trains once passed. Where the buses once ran.

Where the cost of leaving was still reasonable.

We will be here. Even if there are no trains left and the price of fuel has doubled, we will be here.

Beneath the red reflections, behind the windows, among the tunnels and the puddles, we will be here.

It is the hour when only fatigue can rival that marshmallow softness,

The honey-thick hour untouched by anything outside of it.

Words blur into sound, and my breath upon your skin becomes syrup,

Slowly staining your skin carmine.

You might be a little less dead

If the moon weren’t the only thing

You soaked your nerves in

Sweet silence never leaving its sobs, I walk in the snow

the cold burning my cheeks and my hands

thoughts beaten red, cast and held still

in the mountain forest where nothing seeps

but the sound of crystals scraping other crystals

Sticky hands on the steering wheel

little by little the buildings turn into cubes

and the air at my window feels good

The road is long the pace is slow

the end of the day makes colors of domestic spring

The rays on my skin pass through the ozone

pass through the wind the leaves the glass the cigarette smoke my hairs

and make little soft circles on my bare forearms

Behind me, my third-times neighbor gets agitated and pulls away

throws a few glances, then resigns himself

music spills between the cars

the line is long and the lane is single

number plates 25

number plates 39

they don’t follow the day

a current of air at an angle carries the scent of another

A blue checkpoint waits for us further ahead

Skin in clouds

I’ll close my eyes, sweet taste of honey

Glidding large, shaking inside cotton

Sometimes the night is a shape that doesn’t wanna leave.

It lingers like words were still forming, between senses and echo.

Seems that worms don’t like strawberries…