-1-
then the blood moon night
nibbles at the paper camera,
the woman of passwords hunts
with her nuclear weapon of love,
across the horizon
with her catapult of rain.
the moon revolts in sari
like soft cannon balls
kill
and kiss her more
she loves the scent of blue
in your pink pyjamas.
-2-
even the moon needs an elegy,
at times.
like the peeping tramp
posing with a fake iPod,
christened in pink,
with the language of her thighs
trading chemical love
in naked bazaars and circuses
-3-
why do you weep, rain
when you make love
to the pink walls of the city?
have you ever lied to the moon?
Library of Mirrors 