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Yellow Moon
poem for Friday the 13th (December 2019)
Yellow moon caught in branches
above the town, on a night so cold
you hesitate to stop moving.
I know I'm not a good person.
Quick to anger, gluttonous,
riddled with misanthropy
like insects burrowing in meat.
Looking at that yellow moon,
imagining a horde of freaks
gathered in its jaundiced glare,
I see myself stood on the kerb,
all black in formal shirt, trousers,
a Protestant prude in the body of
a red-faced monk.
What vampires, were-beasts,
and simply insane things
would gather in that sickly light?
Beneath a naked tree,
enjoining weird Sabbats
to English, Christian land.
I know I’m not a good person.
And so I think myself
a pale and depraved warlock.
Suddenly at peace
in surety of joy divorced
from all the mundane elements,
the factories and shops and life.
The white moon on its Christmas float
across Jerusalem’s high streets.
Feeling the cold I walk away at last.
The yellow moon stays in its black bower,
resting for its excursion,
I know. I know I’m not a good person.
Yellow moon caught in branches
above the town, on a night so cold
you hesitate to stop moving.
I know I'm not a good person.
Quick to anger, gluttonous,
riddled with misanthropy
like insects burrowing in meat.
Looking at that yellow moon,
imagining a horde of freaks
gathered in its jaundiced glare,
I see myself stood on the kerb,
all black in formal shirt, trousers,
a Protestant prude in the body of
a red-faced monk.
What vampires, were-beasts,
and simply insane things
would gather in that sickly light?
Beneath a naked tree,
enjoining weird Sabbats
to English, Christian land.
I know I’m not a good person.
And so I think myself
a pale and depraved warlock.
Suddenly at peace
in surety of joy divorced
from all the mundane elements,
the factories and shops and life.
The white moon on its Christmas float
across Jerusalem’s high streets.
Feeling the cold I walk away at last.
The yellow moon stays in its black bower,
resting for its excursion,
I know. I know I’m not a good person.
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