The Moon Isn't Renewing Her Virginity
The moon isn't renewing her virginity
in the snakepits of the hypocrites
faking the wavelengths of their radiance
like the black dwarf of an imploding commune
that flared out like graverobbers in the dark
desecrating a cemetery of rainbows.
I've watched the silver shovel of your tongue
go through all phases of the moon, from full
to new, as if you were laying your Tarot cards
out on the table for an autopsy on the Hanged Man.
This one's suspended by one leg with a real rope
around his neck. You're decked out in dreamcatchers
and spider silk like the butterfly bling of a pimp.
What are you selling? Peace, love, and happiness
at the expense of all else? You chirp you love everyone
but you've never loved people enough to learn
how to hate them honestly. There heretics burn
but you're attuned to harmony like a snaketongue
of black lightning is to a tuning fork or a lyre
to the laryngeal cords of a cheesecutter.
You're a wedding cake full of worms. You're
a wishbone with one hip lower than the other
like the short end of the stick, a black capped chickadee
on the lowest rung of the crutch. You emanate.
You radiate. You resonate. You alert
your sleeping brother like a fire alarm
to the god waking up within him, but you exclude,
you forget, you reject the real shamans
dancing in the shadows of their solitude with a limp.
If you cram any more beauty into your eyes
soon you'll be able to open a jewellery store.
God knows how you can love the silver
and hate the ore that poured itself out
like wine for you as if it were bleeding to death
like wild grapes going sour in your mouth.
There's more salvation in drinking
from your own skull, than sipping
like a hummingbird from someone else's grail.
You're just baling a moonboat with a black sail
and a bucket the bottom hasn't fallen out of yet.
Dew blooming on the tips of the tongues
of the stargrass, yes, but you can't conceive
of the watershed of the abyss it was drawn from.
Your moondogs don't snarl enough to guard
the farmyard from the predators that surround you.
[...] Read more
poem by Patrick White
Added by Poetry Lover
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