Tag Archives: moon

Pretty Girls Don’t Deserve Movie Seats

Tell me what you want until it hurts, I’ll hang myself in lights
And I will glow for you, the colour, oh my god it says you
Spinning on this circus ride, we’re farther than we’ve ever been
Stuck in zero gravity we laugh (I think we’re in over our heads…)

~*~

That rasp in your sweet nothings

Tastes like a glitch in the system

Harmed soul so genuinely poetic

I’m catching your heat by a stem

Palm trees and fireworks colours

No alcohol takes away the effects

Of your fingertips, in dreams sour

I can’t sleep to conjure pink death

Cigarette burns on my wrist sting

The dark sunset behind is glaring

Silver rings intertwined your skin

Your confession was not for a sin

I wish I had someone else willing

To disappear with me, I escaping

In pencil lead grey, floral emotion

Victorian ceilings, high as passion

Pray for pain until it starts to hurt

So fall for me, as I’ll crash for you

Local scenes with a reckless spurt

Southern boys paint their sky blue

Against the monochrome filmstrips

Of a grainy romance noir yacht trip

Plastic props and makeup mayhem

Directing takes in a chaotic tandem

I swear both my martyrs eyes’ll haze

Carry me home to a castle lush gazed

You promised me turbulence or spite

It’s a blessing and a curse, can’t deny

You recognise every smile of the sun

Interplay with constellations on a kite

I’ll be the indigo dawn, spilled as I run

Resolutions on a backseat reel tonight

And under the shadow we will whisper

Exchanged melting hearts soft as butter

Whiskey and sobered, on velvet theatre

As exit signs glowed red like a hangover

Tomorrow, I’ll be too wasted with lights

But oh no, I just don’t care about heaven

And if I have the chance to hang myself

On the moon, for you love I’ll do it again.

~*~

I can’t deny it’s getting worse
Trust me, it’s a blessing and a curse
Call me if you’re crashing, we’ll take turns
Hello, welcome to Southern California
Now go back home!

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Mis[s]ery

I miss you

Like hell misses a colder rain

I miss you

Like a masochist craves pain

.

I miss you

Like a lost star on night skies

I miss you

Like a lover misses all the lies

.

I miss you

Like Noah misses tantrum flood

I miss you

Like a psychopath desires blood

.

I miss you

Like fallen angels miss their wings

I miss you

Like a slob misses the little things

.

I miss you

Like a miser misses all his money

I miss you

Like a butterfly thirsting for honey

.

I miss you

Like a junkie addicted to his drugs

I miss you

Like an alcoholic without her mug

.

I miss you

Like the sunset misses the moon

I miss you

Like a trailing song faded too soon

.

I miss you

Like I don’t miss my heart everyday

I miss you

And perhaps it’s better off this way.

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Lost in Twilight

I’ll find repose in new ways
Though I haven’t slept in two days
‘Cause cold nostalgia chills me to the bone
But drenched in vanilla twilight
I’ll sit on the front porch all night…

~*~

The horizon is on fire, and the sky is a silver ocean

Rippling in flames, liquid sluice in delicate motions

That sun is a pyre requiem, extinguishing the moon

Mine sweetheart dawn might blink back quite soon

The stars are singing, they’ll spare you a goodnight

Pray for umbra lullabies’ charm to return their lights

The horizon dwindling down, the pacific sky recedes

Colliding with chromatic, every colour you’ll perceive.

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nothing to do and scream at the drunken moon

you can

light up

the stars

with your

calming

and warm

calliope

voice,

but your

throat, it

got tired

and you

ran out of

songs to

serenade

us with…

and now

the moon

weeps as

i repose

fitfully

under a

lightless

night sky.

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cold empty mattresses and falling stars

gilded honey

cascading

over sulphur

hearts and

severed hands;

sweet like

almond milk

yet rancidly

sour like

painful lust

.

i hope i don’t

scare you off

with my talk

of dislodged

clean limbs

that i plucked

within the

undergrowth

of my ribs,

tonight, i run

.

i love the

thought of

your germane

affliction,

the shade in

your eyes

speaks like dust

through wind

and i chase

for the ocean…

.

and if i don’t

make it home

before the

horizon screams,

kiss me and

hope that

you won’t be

embarrassed

by the attention

of the moon.

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Cosmic Band-Aids

The coalescing Seattle twilight was an interplaying illusion of dusk and haze, warm colours replacing the pastel skylines, only to be painted over by the deep indigo eventide. The local rustic town café was already closing up, and they barely had time to finish the last bites of their chocolate bonbons and sip the remaining drops of their hazelnut vanilla frappé, before the intermittent barista ushered them out—quite literally, with a tremulous hand and an apologetic jilted demeanour. Now they stood outside the establishment in introspective reverie, dimmed bronze sodium streetlight the only solitary light source that resiliently pierced through the caliginous melancholy.

She was a blushing rose, liquid and pale, every infinitesimal detail somehow magnified to be remarkably interesting. Fragrance of baby’s breath and frankincense, posture of a regal and sophisticated monarch, delicate face as that of an angel’s glimpse of paradise, personality of an intricate vintage lock and a million exploding suns. Her companion, admittedly, was a person of less enigma, yet was still a character of significance, an oakwood branch, roughly-hewn and intense, simple yet charismatic. That svelte and cheeky-looking fellow had untidy coffee-tint hair, a discursive ironic smirk, an insouciant slouch, and a steely glint that, more often than not, signalled trouble.

As the fog and the regent shadows further intensified, the pauses and discomfited silence between them further attenuated. Moments passed. Her candyfloss-pink sundress fluttered like a jaded butterfly as she tucked a frayed bookmark behind her seashell ear, and her taciturn companion watched her intently, like an engrossed pawnbroker. Without permission, he began to remove his worn tan overcoat and gingerly placed the article over her cool shoulders, still warm and cosy by his own body heat. Flustered by the uncalled attention, she turned away to brush a stray raven hair back into her gossamer tufted bun, and lost grip of her book of poems, fragile pages yellowed and dogeared with age. Sylvia Plath’s ancient anthology dropped with a soft thump right side up, opening uncannily on the centre page containing Mad Girl’s Love Song, and both bent down and fumbled clumsily to pick it up in haste.

Fingers tangled. Glances exchanged. Blue eyes collided with green. Hands clenched. Throats choked. Hearts skipped. Breaths hitched. Souls shattered. Their blueberry-strawberry swirl ice cream melted absently like calligraphy on the pavement. The book now lay abandoned and forgotten, its unspoken poetry dancing alongside the breeze. No words were whispered. None were necessary. Overhead, the last of the brimstone shades faded away, and incandescent stars splashed the darkness of the falling sky. Below, firework eyes showered sparks, and skins intertwined. Witnessing it all, hiding behind the wisps of pewter clouds and overlooking the nocturnal planet, the glowing moon quaintly smiled.

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The Conviction of the Moon

Those firmament tears were amber

As it crystallised in its fragile grasp

The stars witnessed that November

How the sun drowned with no gasp

.

The crowns of their empire shatters

The stars beseeched their trial runs

Jury of the solar system in smatters

Proclaim against that deathless sun

.

The court adjourned and it abjured

In flagrante delicto, they were sure

They have a case against the moon

Ex gratia, a saturnine arcane gloom

.

Order! Objection! A recess! I’ll hear!

Oyez oyez taken to deaf stone ears

As the crowd accused, opinions nil

Sneered at the convicted, little thrill

.

Reconvene the order of the audience

I repeat, the moon said, gall cadence

This is a bum rap, I divorced the sun

I’ll appeal, you’ve got the wrong man

.

The opposing side argued to the end

We lost our lights, a beloved friend!

I’ve no time for liars, I declared war

When you killed off a beautiful star

.

Both sides were taut, horizons grey

It seemed they will not finish today

Yet the murder weapon is procured

Lunacy, a sickness from lunar word

.

The gavel slammed the wooden slab

Ringing in that silent courtroom hub

I thereby sentence you to your exile

From the milky way, until you defile.

.

The moon, taking its fate, left home

Before he stepped down, his lesson

Caught smug mouths of the rallying

The stars cried, their planets glaring

.

I loved the sun dear, she was my own

Yet I was blinded by a foolish weapon

As asteroids rain, I will refuse a nudge

I shall let the universe be my only judge.

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Nights Forfeiting Old

You perceive that I feel cold

And the moon is liquid gold

Against the satin stitch fold

I fit like a labyrinthine mold

But don’t let me die for scold

Constellation rivulets in bold

The walls are falling, I’m told

Don’t let me melt in your hold.

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Stargirl and the Rocket Lights

You are a curiosity, or a mental case, as some called it rather crudely and dismissively, and you knew everyone noticed. But they didn’t care, and neither should you. One day, you impulsively proclaimed, whilst balancing on the top of a redwood tree branch, that disappearing acts never got old, so you said goodbye to your squirrel friend, clambered down the tree hurriedly, and dashed home. You burst into your room with a loud door slam, gathered up your paraphernalia, grabbed your half-full rucksack dotted with strange pins and souvenir keychains, which was patiently waiting by your ramshackle oakwood cabinet, and began haphazardly shoving various motley things inside. Once you were finished cleaning up and made even more of a mess in the process, you quickly plastered a teddy bear print band-aid on your cheek from where the rough wood accidentally scratched and left a thin red mark, clumsily tied your DIY pinstriped Keds’ purple and green shoelaces, stretched out—as if competing in a marathon—on an abandoned Twister board on your carpeted floor, and finally you left the house, chasing your dissolution without so much as a backward glance. The first part was easy. The next part was easier.

The nightwalking horizon was tinted virtually the same colour as your ripped stonewashed denim overalls, the reticulated stars were in implausible full burst and clearly visible, a myriad riot like the splattered black inkstains on your bohemian tie-dyed shirt, and the moon was shaded exactly and uncannily like your ivory silk flower leggings, the number of the craters perfectly aligned with the number of the frayed holes by your knees, the ones you tore yourself with zigzag safety scissors. The dreamy air tasted faintly like bubblegum ice cream, and the astral bodies were softly clicking into their designated places, a marvellous tableaux of God’s fanciful ethereal jigsaw puzzle. Nothing more was to be prepared; all you had to do was pass against the serendipitous turn of time. That particular task in itself was no difficult feat for your whimsical affinity. The other factor to consider was your destination. Invariably, it didn’t matter which bus you got on, if you were even waiting for a bus at all, for you have an overpowering ominous sensation within your heart that you’ll always inevitably end up on a wayward road, diverging on the intersection to nowhere. And in your own quote unquote words, as that one cliché that nobody says goes, signal for the universe and the galaxy will come.

Your vintage analogue Hello Kitty clock ticked sluggishly second by second, and the small candy floss pink lights by the side came to life and began to glow fervently as the hands struck exactly 8 PM. You had a lot of time to spend thereon and then, sitting prim and taciturn on the graffitied wooden bench, waiting for the longest forever. You intertwined scarlet camellias on your plaited geranium hair and held it in place with a gargantuan leopard-print scrunchie. You tapped your hands, plucked a few sweet and sour notes on your marmalade-orange ukulele, and hummed a Joy Division song melodically, and you laughed quietly when you flubbed the chorus with a splintered squeak. You counted the cheap glittery stars you stuck on your plastic journal even though you knew the number by heart, some microscopic yellow speckles transferring to your skin as you absentmindedly peeled one at the side with a polkadotted fingernail. You scribbled lines of guitar keys, and doodled literal intricate keys without paired locks, onto the slightly-torn cover page with a blueblooded space pen, and used the same pen to trace the wiry butterfly outline on your right ankle. You observed with childish wonder and twinkling heterochromatic dandelion eyes as prams, automobiles, taxis, and tallyho’s passed by you in an amicable whirlwind breeze and friendly engine revving. There were a billion tangible stars in this side of the dimension, just a little more than the glamorous stars shining on your notebook, and you can pluck each and every single one off their orbit. You had a lot of fun little preoccupations, and the time on your hands seemed almost eternal.

Time was up. When it seemed like the aberrant clocks hitched their breaths and you’ve done a thousand and one tasks to fill such a lacuna, finally, Hello Kitty’s spinning hour hand gingerly moved into its designated place. The moment it touched the notch and exactly as the pink lights began their little show, you tilted your chin until it was higher than your freckled button nose, and stared enthusiastically at the empty tranquil sky. As if on cue, your implausible carpool vehicle hurtled imperceptibly from beneath the atmosphere, burning the crepuscular firmament’s concrete shadows at light-year speed, and arrived with a dissuaded thump, to take you away from such a bland and diluted planet. Tucking a stray highlighted neon hair back in your pierced and heavily-ornamented ears, you cautiously replaced the overflowing tatterdemalion notebook back in your bag, bounced on your heels and stood up with lilting sneakered toes, and ceremoniously stepped into that rocketship invention calmly, without any nuance of surprise or astonishment. It seemed you would simply walk straight and be swallowed whole by the blinding flash, but at the last moment, you turned back at the dominating darkness and sent a quaint, fragile, almost palpable air-kiss flying from your painted ruby lips and painted dainty fingers onto the open space. The entire population of the world must have felt a faint zephyr graze their cheek softly at that very moment, but they were too naïve to even bother with noticing it. Yet you said your polite goodbyes, so it didn’t matter. You grandiosely waved a final farewell, the tattooed patterns on your arms spinning and dancing with pastel motion, and you smiled lazily, quite cryptically, as the metallic-gold doors closed in dénouement with a sibilant hiss and a burst of flourishing steam. The metaphysical vessel roared as it propelled into ignition again, shooting up into the sky immediately and billowing into evanescence out of peripheral view, and you were gone with it. Your wish was granted, and you permanently left behind the life you always tolerated with distaste, into a more interesting place with a better yesterday, and no one cared…except for one.

Stargirl, when you ran away and stole the cornflower moon with you from the midnight sky to elope, did you think no one would be interested? When you vanished and charmingly serenaded the sun into a retrograde motion, did you think no one would find out? Did you ever think, for a single heartbeat, that when your star, hiding in plan sight among millions of the other specks in the star-freckled sky, was quietly extinguished, I wouldn’t even notice?

I out of all people would hate to admit such a fact, but for once in your extraordinary yet ephemeral existence, Stargirl, you were wrong.

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Ubiquitous

It hurts like a twist of a blunt scalpel wedged deeply within my broken ribs, this. The bitterest sensation of not having it all to myself. Not keeping it as my decadent secret locked away. Not being able to catch my own fairy in a glass jar. But then again, I suppose it cannot be called a fair game if I don’t collide with the oncoming moon and leave a gaping hollow crater on the playing board, in order to get severely damaged. I can only pray for redemption silently, as I find myself rousing once again under the maelstrom of dust devils that even the most tantric nonexistent winds from the atmosphereless astral body cannot disperse of. The remorse that comes with the dice roll comes so naturally, it’s almost selfish. Almost conscientiously demeaning. Almost guilt-inducing. Almost.

Because despite all the elsewhere tragedies that have gracelessly transpired, lacerating me with scars under my tongue and at the back of my hands, I simply won’t bleed diamonds from my wrist from foolish emotional distraught; rather, I shall forge an envious solidarity of the toughest steel element and hope within my frazzled nerves fervently that someday, God looks away. There is no reason to grieve, no reason to stain my pillowcase with rain, no reason to be asinine against the inevitable. I have the better set of cards in this shuffled deck. For they may weep for the dawn and admire the sunset, but I will always have the sun to myself, no matter the point of day and weather. That much, I can keep my faith on.

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