A glut of moon goes down my throat,
sharp knives clashing, uncomfortable pressing milk.
There are bad gods in this parkland, the echoes of one-night stands,
of evenings where I have stood rigid, pretending to laugh,
pretending to have a ‘nice time’.
When a man asked me
‘what do you want to achieve in the next five years?’
I cracked, and said: ‘I want to see the burning bush –
the flayed body of god going up in lilac and vermillion light.’
He didn’t like it. Still, I suppose I was telling
the truth, or as close to the truth as I knew how to express.
The parkland is heavy, rough, coughing somewhere in the darkness,
never cut through the woods, where electric light gives way to shade,
never never never – but I want to.
Drunk on beers, and drunk on the smell of the moon,
the blood in the air, the chip shop stink somewhere beyond the trees,
the perfume drifting from the backseats of Ubers as their engines idle,
waiting for their kin.
The full moon smacks me in the face, with vigour,
sets my teeth jangling.
The only interesting thing left is the sound of the wind in these branches,
a secret language we’re not allowed to learn.
If I fall onto the ground, as I’d like to, will I sprout leaves? Will I be reborn?
Somewhere, all the people I love are calling for me,
but no – I will no longer listen.