The faithless faith

Moon,
Full-bodied, jaundice-yellowed, sullen-lipped,
Leans drunkenly against the navy-sapphire night drapes,
Heavily-lidded eyes watch the ingrates calling for God in the all the wrong places,
In the pits of humanity where the saffrons and emeralds lock horns and spill sticky ruby-red-russet,
A little girl sits in her grandfather's lap lapping up lore of the victory of good over evil,
She watches, wide-eyed, the old man's old fingers—sinewy, gnarled—playing out the pantomime of shadows on the walls,
Her faith is birthed somewhere between the peeling walls that smell of senescence and a hole-y undershirt surrendered to decay.
This moon
Laughs, sees the cretins’ strife for their holy places and
raises them a little girl’s grandfather’s meager chamber
She laughs, this moon

Moon,
Half-faced, bleached-white, terror-stricken,
Obscured but half in the azure vast beyond-ness,
Her ears puckered as the drums roll hysterically, their manic voices rising to a shuddering climax,
They worship the Goddess, put her on pedestals, dress her in vivid vermillion and glittering gold
A faith that wraith-like twists itself into a noose around the young-spring’s neck,
The appendage she stuck out among the torrid-tangerine barbarians,
Shuddering still from the nightmares that sprouted from their
hands, and eyes, and words, and mouths on her
the men of worship dressed in habits and the men of intellect dressed in power,
Rub their hands and dance in glee as the sprig is cast into the pyre,
Fanned by callous-conniving cahoots and ablaze with slander, disrepute and abasement
This moon,
Shudders, witnesses the black shame of the cardinal celestial being sinking
into the deep, murky blackness with the visceral remains of a thousand springs
She averts her eyes, this moon

Moon
Star-dusted, crescent-backed, pincer-bound
Fractiously pinches the indigo, empyrean domain
Obligated by its nature to stand by, the all-seeing eye, never to testify
The commodity of ‘God’ wrung out and left to dry,
In establishments where godsmen transact, or in other words plunder and loot,
puppeteers shake pillars of faith just enough to orchestrate the multitudes
to crawl out of the woodwork, to ostracise, demonise, sub-humaise a few,
In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit
In the name of the Creator, the Preserver and the Destroyer,
All the while the chanting goes on and on and on, their essence slew,
There’s no riches to be had in devotion, no power to be had in surrender,
No lust to be satisfied in empathy, no thrill to be had in kindness
This moon,
Weeps, has had enough, so thwarted she retreats,
To darkest end of the night, if only to escape the vicious vibgyor-ed faithless faiths
She fades away, this moon

Not so fast...

Lying flat on my back,
Palms open, eyes fixed on the sky,
Egging on death with such force of life,
That I laugh out loud at the irony of it all

Unyoung-ed

Something's a-coming,
As I face the mirror's judgement,
my jawline blurs and I metamorphose into my mother,
Only, I have reshaped her lines,
Only, I have folded into my own wrinkles,
All the things I have been have found places in my flesh,
Now there's someone else in darkness of my eyes

Something's a-coming,
I don't bend in all those places,
that were warmed molten by the desire to please,
I burn from the edges in, a motley collection of unreadable words
on charred bits of paper; I'm at home in the fireplace,
Like a gash on the lip—painfully pleasurable to bite,
I chew on wounds and grudges and unmet expectations, 
Now there's someone else in the thinness of my mouth

Something's a-coming, 
Winter sways bashfully in the horizon, 
The air holds still; gathering it's cloak around it,
It smells like pandanus flowers and wood-smoke
It smells like a jubilation and melancholia all at once, 
I have forgotten the meaning of loneliness, 
My dreams are bereft of youthful yearning and hopes,
I've become too much of me, or just enough,
Now there's someone else in the stillness in my chest

Something's a-coming,
A tempest waiting to hit,
A deathly still waiting to take grip,
Steady, steady, they go my two steady legs,
Between my ribs there's nothing aflutter,
Only a trudging on of this life's drum beat,
I am ready for this—whether equinox or solstice,
Now that there's this someone else inside my head