The moon doesn’t care that the stars aren’t there.
It’s smiling at me like a fish in the sea
and laughing with glee behind leaves of a tree.

Under rugs and in cupboards,
inside pots and pans,
beautiful maggots happily hand
around bottles of water
and drink, and sip,
and they laugh
and they dance
and often they skip.
Birds of a feather 
fly out on the wing.
I’m going up high 
in this park 
on this swing.

There’s a hole in my foot
and holes in my head.
I’m breathing out carbon 
and breathing in lead.
I’m half made of metal, 
half plastic and stone.
My eyes are two jellies.
My skin’s made of bone.
Silvery stuff appears out my nose 
and eventually all I can do is simply just roll.

Along with the houses, 
the hills, 
and the parks, 
the vomit, 
the mildew, 
the birds in the dark.
Looking forward and backward 
and onwards and under, 
and higher and lower 
till comes time for supper,
I’ll come back around.
Back to old Chinatown, 
sorry and sleepy and wearing a frown, 
I’ll say
“Hey, Mister, please! I can’t find my knees!”
And he tells me to pray
and I fall to my knees once again.

Now seeing nothing,
my head watching the sky, 
raindrops come down,
pouring out of my eyes.
My hands clasped together 
are slipping apart, 
my knees beneath me 
are starting to smart. 
The flood’s coming now 
and Noah’s left with the ark, 
forsaken us all to a walk in the park, 
where I go, and I look and see all kinds of living, 
of laughter and love and kindness and giving. 

And it makes my tears start to cry.
And water swiftly pours out the sides of my eyes.

The moon doesn’t mind that the sun never shines.
She’s so far away and never replies.
It’s late at night, but it’s bright, and I know:
That I won’t be sleeping underneath her white glow.