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Somewhere on the moon last night, Neil Armstrong came back to life and was standing in the middle of the Sea of Tranquility in complete darkness.  His frail, decaying hands that were no doubt filled with formaldehyde, held a rather large and sure-to-be extremely heavy boombox that loomed up and over his head, blasting “Total Eclipse of the Heart” on repeat.  He said that it crossed his mind more than once to replace the six faded white American Flags with the stereo, but ultimately decided against it.


In mythology, bleeding is considered to be a feminine attribute:  
                                     “I bleed, therefore I am.” 
(But this is also the downfall of a version of feminism that is not intersecular.)  ((Your lunar cycle does not necessarily need to function in order to be considered a woman.))  (((I am not sure of which, if any, version of feminism Neil Armstrong subscribed to.)))

                                                ­              ­                            When a woman is bleeding, they say that she is at the height of her power; she is aligned with the tides and the cosmos.  She is celestial.  Blood is sacred,
eternal—the very essence of our beings—
                                                ­        ­      ­             but if the Blood Moon was
                                                ­                  really just the moon on her period,
what could she do last night she could do at no other point in her life?  
Where was her power?  She was isolated,
                                                                ­              forgotten by the sun,
                                           hidden away inside the umbra of the earth.  

(Which is the part where the masculine power of the sun rejected the most important feminine attribute of the moon.)


Michael Collins flew solo around the moon while Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin played with dust and rocks.  For 48 minutes he was completely alone, radio silenced behind the shadow, and he thought about death and being the last man standing from Apollo 11.


Inside Neil Armstrong’s speakers, Bonnie Tyler was crooning that
                      “your love is like a shadow on me all of the time,”
and I have not yet decided if this is                      
                                                                ­       good      or      bad.  
Instead, I am wondering if Buzz Aldrin feels sore for
eternally being second best?  Or if he still thinks that the view from the
moon is still one of “magnificent desolation?”  And
does he feel this way about all three of his ex-wives?  
Do they know that the moon was his first love?


We name missions to the moon, to
Luna’s surface, to Diana’s territory, after a
Greek and Roman god of the sun, when
                                                            ­          wolves howl to the goddess
                                                         ­                              instead.
sometimes i try to be funny and yet serious idk
Hello, don't hang up
I know you don't know me
But I believe I know you
I know your dreams
I know your desires
Of the darkest seduction
From a strangers voice
Of how I would use you
But strict with kindness
Punish you with lusts
Lusts yet unknown to you
Lusts to ravish your body
To please you in many ways
All the ways you dream of
Would you dare to know me?
Would you dare return my call?
Don't be afraid of the dark
All you need do is step inside
All you need do is use the phone
Dial my number, I dare you
Copyright © Chris Smith 2014
Too
It's hard to stop
loving
the things that
hurt you,
especially when
they're hurting
too.
Rolling lips.
Flashing eyes.
Blazing red.
Petrified.

Stiletto heels.
Stake in hand.
The huntress waits inside.
Shadow blanket.
Cool and damp.

Lover rigid.
Tranquilised.
Palm pressed hard.
Upon forehead.
Body sustenance all gone.
Dead.

Huntress's stake.
Life did take.
She must.
Vampire.
Undead.
Pile of dust.

Goodbye my love.
(c)LIVVI
 Oct 2015 bouhaouel zeineb
Makiya
I want to lay blankets over your head,
Hold a flashlight while you read my palm, my wrist my elbowmybreasts
I want to pay homage to your chest and
It's many rhythms, 3/4, 4/4, 5/4
Whatever, I don't know anything about timing,
Or I would have met you 6 years ago,
Before she broke your heart so that by now perhaps it may have grown
The size of this room we share
Instead, for now I'll hear you out in whispers

and in quiet
     morning conversations
I'm just a hand me down friend,
You grew out of me like your loose split ends.
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