the moon with their many tongues.
She doesn't float, she isn't free.
In a metal dream
the tendrils curl around her
like a ring's clasp.
I home in like the brain of a wasp.
The automatic windows wake me up.
The moon reflected in a greasy cup.
I never drank the dregs.
She isn't female, she doesn't give
a fuck. The symphony of cymbals
falls down many colliding walls.
The gilded glory without milk
or blood. Terraced cities gleaming
paved layers and then laminated layers
rising like reptilian minds.
Arrows find me like many
electronic messages
at the pillar of discarded saints.
Lunar lending is a sun that paints.
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