Sunday, November 20, 2011


The moon changes its face everyday,
Standing on a planet known for its sins
You make calenders and anoint newborns.
Hindu wives pray for longevity of lives for
Shying cuckold husbands, their minds
Filled with images of lust from previous

Two romantics eroticize the moon together
Making promises never to be fulfilled, hormones
Fueling words and fantasies. The moon looks
Down quietly and sighs, its mind struggling
With decisions, cosmic ones, I assure you.
Poets come out too, tired after lengthy sessions
Of masturbation.

The moon becomes a backcloth for song filled
Rumors, also called films. It is humbled by the
orchestration of large scaled rioting. In lands far
From humanity; a sniper takes aim at unsuspecting,
buck-toothed villains. Watchdogs condemn such
Actions in the morning news while sipping hot tea
With biscuits.

The moon has has to father children, intermittently so.
Hermit crabs thrash around, sexing the night up;
Moonlight the only known stimulus for indifference.
Sailors are oft lost, ships sunk and dolphins amused
When the moon plays havoc with tides. Astronomers
Become linguists and crushes its eternal desire to be called

The moon takes solace in the sun, lighting up the sky for
Those who are out of candles. The moon changes its face
Everyday, only for those on the planet of sins. For the
Universe at large, it is a silvery orb of absolute delight,
Gyrating maddeningly around the ample bosom of the planet
Ruined by us. Like black moths, dancing around slipppery

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