The Nihilist - Seven: Blood On the Moon
Embryos sing saddle-sore sonatas, beneath
the despot eaves of chromium skies, reflecting
black light down upon the harbours where
ambition claws the air and slowly dies; and
nighthawks scream a siren song of sadness, for
all the lovers lost and ripped apart, their
entrails steaming, scattered and decaying, cryogenic
memories still the beating heart.
Somewhere in a paean of pain and passion, eyes
upturned in sockets sear the night, telescope
and zoom into the heavens, ruptured
vessels crack the milky white; for
all the golden graces of the goddess, stealing
and absorbing love and soul, hoarding
with her sadist smiles of sorrow, reaps
the diamond, reimburses coal.
On the moon my blood drips sour and savage, fills
the craters and the fossil seas, scars
the surface dust like crazy paving, packs
the vacuum deserts with disease; on
the moon my blood is frozen solid, crystallising,
still as tombstone script, cold,
implacably cast as death's dominion, to
love no more, enamelled bathtub crypt.
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