When left alone at night I look for the pinpoint lights of the stars that appear when clouds aren’t there.
There’s a waning gibbous moon shyly peaking from the shadows, with one of its symmetrical sides, what’s the moon got to hide?
whispering privately I’ve heard the moon has a darkside, that it’s coin-like and openly two-faced. That’s no idle gossip, it's scientifically based.
India just landed on the moons bottom I wonder what, exactly, that got ‘em. It’s funny because the moon is ****, making the landing sound rather rude.
“India is groping the **** moon’s bottom.” See what I mean? It all sounds rather pervish and obscene - not at all the usual routine - it has the ring of something politically incorrect, but that’s progress, I guess, undressed or dressed.
Why is your poetry naked You couldn’t wear some words on them What I’m thinking is not in my head What you heard from me are unknown to me well, Take me as i am I’m flawed Bake me as i am I’m thawed The blue is sky Everyone lied The truth as been wandering No one accepted it Keeps me wondering Why lying is so sweet You called me a caveman Because i grunt while walking You couldn’t hear me well Then you called me a walking poet I was a lil’ bit weird Cos no one to cover my naked weapons Who’s gonna wear the bullet Everyone left unaware
So the next day I turned to them, vulnerable Stripped from my veiled self, humbled my eyes, shared the sweetness of my speech as if we have shared the same womb
In exchange, I obtained angry faces, eyes heavy on madness, deaf by the screaming of their own cries In the raw I stood there, thunderstruck Reckless tongues spitting words as if destruction lit itself on fire Now I realize, perhaps it was not the soul but the body they desire