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Untitled 14

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Untitled 14

Moving in and out of shadows, his moon love has scarred me.
As he grows whole again, I think I can feel him forgetting me, 
but I’m left with all the marks. I am cracking in this caustic air 
whereas he continues to go on, changing his mind nightly, owning 
each new confusing shape whilst I unbloom. I want to claw his flesh and 
scratch that serpent visage but he is unscarrable. I loved him yesterday 
and I love him more today, I’ll be dead by tomorrow, drowned in his chalk-sea. 
He gorges on innocence, it’s his only hunger. He doesn’t bleed nor feel pain
nor see mine. His crescent smile sickens me but I want to bathe in his stains.
 I sense him every night, watching him with my silent screech-owl’s eye
and tasting his infection on my lips like arsenic. But I am not alone. 
His presence is marked by many; we all watch him swell with our septic eyes. 
He enlarges like a frosted bud unpeeling. His brassy light reflects on to me 
and I wonder whether I gleamed to him, lingering like bruised flesh; 
he engorges; I blister; and his shadow engulfs me. The cold surface grows 
and it looks like war, full of crippled winter-stripped trees and ice-rock -   
the texture of a twitching eyeball- unlike my overgrown, strangling insides. 
He’s the coldest thing I’ve known. Once full, he is the colour of a jackal’s tooth. 
Glaring down, his nakedness, all silver and bare, yolkless like a purposeless egg, 
brings me to my knees and forces my skeletal face into its final bone blush.

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