Goodnight, goodnight.
A rocket has hit the man on the moon in the eye,
much like how it was when mermaids declared war
on every little babobab tree across Mars.
A pinch of salt to go with you eyes squinting with
desire. You talk too much.
Wheels could not take me up to the moon,
man on the moon,
oh, so miserably!
We were married once, he and I. He had my heart
in his mouth.
I flew across the galaxy, with my pink hat and
my pink shoes
and your grey coated nails that danced in June.
Happy June day. Happy birthday.
I see fretboards every Saturday morning, right before the sun
sets back south.
I’m quite hard to remember and even harder to forget.
I cut my own hair, why not? If it takes me back home,
then you have not seen me yet.
I rode a rocket that left me somewhere in the Atlantic.
I fell on you; once, I fell for you.
Do we dictate form when form has no meaning?
But you are so skinny, and someone should feed you.
One does not live on waves alone, nor does one become something
when the grounds start to shake.
Choose me! I say, pick me!
I was swallowed by the cracks on the pavement and I
felt guilty.
Do you deny, do you lie, do you dance in
periwinkle skies?
Do you think it’s too soon to quit the man on the moon?

I cut my hair today.
I heard you cry as I slashed them strands with a knife.
Samson cut his hair and so did I.
Good night. Good night.
The man on the moon has one eye.
The man on the moon is a Man and a Woman and I with one eye.