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MARK JOHNSTONE
the moon appears in

many of my poems.
she is a round, luminous peach,
patient, ripe, wise

yet I say that poetry no longer flows through my veins, that i am no longer
          -          free          -

and i ask myself what is free-
dom anyway and i
runaway

tonight, she beams down at me, her
orange iridescence filled with the thoughts of all of us
waiting for some me to scribble them
paint them on an overhanging piece of sandstone

tonight, tonight, my veins are swollen and ready for the needle of your inspiration to
prick some lost and lonely artery where once your voice
(our voices my voice

yet i yell that i no longer know how
i'm not free that once, once, i spoke for the moon

but tonight, tonight
i must write
something, anything
the wriggly-wiggly, giggly-niggly
tiny tadpole that joined us in a sterile hospital ward not a month ago
her beautiful butterfly breath fluffing into my neck as she sleeps in sheer
innocence, one arm around my throat
paternal pride and purple screams of rage,
delicate pink hand fluttering
sleep, sleep, little angel sleep near me, cling to me, cry
when you need me

or do I write about the tragedy that poetry, voice of our gods
was crucified by popcorn and action movies
sitcoms, miniseries, cocacola frozen pizza
quickfix entertainment we do'wanna
Think
(do you still remember how? i fear i'm forgetting
how where i am and why it is that i'm
typing on my laptop this muddle that i daren't call a
poem

poetry, poetry, most ancient art known to us
poetry, poetry, your wisdom once filled the glamorous theatres of the bourgeoisie your
potency once blended with tribal rhythm as you danced
praises to kings and chiefs

poetry, poetry, abandoned, like the moon the forests the creatures of this earth
to dusty shelves and musty academics
who muse over your woos
and choose to lose
the voice of your creator
in the limp lily limbed gesticulations
of their cerebral masturbations

(yes you. don't wash your hands of this one, and you, what are you sneaking out for?)

for tonight, tonight,
the moon chooses to abuse the news
the latest blockbuster reviews
the fucking hypocritical do's
of high society royalty film stars popstars sexstars
every fucking star under the galaxy

the moon, the moon, she should laugh in scorn at what we call entertainment
butno. tonight a tiny tear taints her triumph
trickles to my fingertips

for poetry, poetry, you were crucified by canned laughter slinky silicone sisters with
staged smiles and artificial t-
            eeth
you died and were buried

but here's to our children. here's to the moon.
here's to the third day when she rolled away the rock of your
empty tomb.
here's to the

            res
     urrectionof
            poe
            try