listen: there's a hell of a good universe next door; let's go

poems by moon dad. chaos on main @liltinysoprano

[moondadpoems]

I'm sick and tired of this ascetiscism thing you do, denying yourself the pleasures of the world—namely, myself—and to what end? Saving yourself for true love's kiss? I'll admit I'm jealous of your past Grindr hookups, imagining you wrist deep in some boy's pussy, looking up at him, smug with lazy determination.

You can keep pretending you don't want me, but one night you whispered that you wondered how I taste, and I'm still getting off to the concept of your curiosity. When you finally drag your tongue up my hot center, circling my clit, we'll both moan.

[moondadpoems]

some mornings

I swear I can see

dawn greet the city

from your window,

ruling over concrete

and squared-off buildings,

the stoplights vivid

bluegreen in the half light,

the S-Bahn beeping and

clacking on the corner.

how many times

have I imagined that

it was mine; that I, too,

met the day from your

strange swinging windows;

wiped my feet on your

watermelon doormat.

somehow now I miss

a place I’ll never see

while somehow still

you carry on,

your whole world

in those three rooms;

reduced to what fits

inside your computer

screen.

[moondadpoems]

The room was too dark, and our faces were too close, and I was about to lose my self control.

"If you kiss me, I'm going to fall in love with you," I whispered into the space of our shared breath.

“Well, we can't have that,” you murmured, but you slid your hand down the front of my shorts. I straddled your lap, feeling you hard against my stomach. Your fingers pressed into me like we'd done this hundreds of times before, and we rocked together desperately.

“Don't–,” you warned, but I was already falling over the edge for you.

[moondadpoems]

Kourosh knew the only thing that would settle his mind was moving his body. It was impossible for him to stay still on an ordinary day, much less a day where it was possible he had lost everything. Hells, even his home didn't stay in one place, as the caravan of satyrs was always on the move across the bitter cold Uldran Tundra.

He'd awoken from a nap in an unfamiliar bed, eyes rimmed red from crying; twist of anxiety in his gut and impossible buzz under his skin—the need to move. So that night, when he and Alexandre approached the Kanslari, Kourosh welcomed her appraising gaze; her lecherous grin. And when he let her use his body, he became a blissful shell of himself, losing himself to the indefatigable rhythm of it, her need a shout of triumph.

In the morning, she was gone, and Kourosh lay quiet and empty, his curls a halo of snow on the pillow. He'd paste his smile back on for the others' sake until the unease of the buzz returned, too loud to ignore.

[moondadpoems]

please,

don’t stop

whispering to me

of how your lips

will one day

brush my skin;

the way you wonder

how I will taste.

I didn’t know 

how much I needed

to hear your sweet song

encouraging the little

voice inside me chanting

I want

I want

I want

welling up like floodwaters,

so loud sometimes

I choke; I drown.

you’ve lost me

to a fantasy

before our hands

could even touch

and although

my heart knows

it was never meant

to be you,

I watch you 

put on your armor

and walk away, crying

please,

don’t go

[moondadpoems]

and once more I find myself

going through the motions

of caring for this flesh and bone;

of putting back together

the pieces of my heart,

wrecked by a fleeting glimpse

of what it would be like

to be worshipped by you.

with ragged voice I pray

that I am worthy of

passion and devotion;

that the universe will give me

something I can truly touch;

that just one time in these

cold, distant stars,

the poet becomes the muse.

[moondadpoems]

in the half light of stormy afternoon

I lay myself on your altar:

bare skin smoothed over

the crisp of percale sheets,

imagining the heat of you

at my side. I worship

with sacred instruments

of silicone and sin; with

hymns of gasps and moans

I sing myself to frenzy,

breathless crescendo,

until the ritual is done,

your name on my tongue,

a whispered prayer as I unfold

for this idea of you,

baptized by the heavy tears

of tenderness; atonement

for what I dare desire.

[moondadpoems]

there are six bags of shit

somewhere on the moon,

if you can believe it–

one discarded by each Apollo mission,

foisting their baggage onto

this sacred, celestial body

just to pick themselves up again;

to return to Earth a little lighter. 

I, too, know what it feels like

to be alone in the dark of space

reeling from what others left,

carrying the stench of what’s not mine,

all the craters that mar my surface

shamefully illuminated,

visible to the naked eye.

witches and astronauts alike

appreciate the mysteries of our moon,

unique in the known universe

for how large she looms

above her host; her cycles

revered in ritual and research,

captivating humankind with

what physics or magic

inextricably placed her

in our heavens.

and you, careful

astronomer of my heart,

so brand new,

what yearning strikes you when

you gaze up at the night sky?

in my dreams

I emerge from your horizon

ripe, round, delicate,

reborn every month

wanton, begging

that one day 

a team of rocket scientists

might ever calculate the trajectory

from me to you;

the derivative of

two souls and time.

I wonder if the moon

quivers in anticipation

as she sees Orion approach,

the capsule slowing, entranced

by the promise of her gravity,

the way I hold my breath 

as you reach my pericynthion,

circling close in my orbit

but never landing.

[moondadpoems]

another spring gone

and summer’s burgeoning heat 

sinks into my skin.

I see myself 

in the bright refracted blue

of the sky, the impossible

loft of the picturebook clouds,

but when I look in the mirror

your smirk stares back

from my lips, the depth

of your eyes’ knowing gaze

in my reflection’s glance.

this year

I won’t be so careful

when the sun makes me

flushed; glassy-eyed

and languid; my

freckled neck bared

to sweet incandescence;

my blood turning to ink.

this year

I’ll write a new story

without you.

[moondadpoems]

fire up my rockets

and launch me into space

so I can get off

this godforsaken planet.

for years have I 

danced my longings

under the light of the 

full moon; celebrated

the champagne bubble

buoyancy of Jupiter;

felt the ascetic dream-

building and hand-holding

of Saturn.

turns out

it’s cold up here;

fragile,

lonely,

to want more than 

this Earth can give;

to hunger for a future

I’ll never get to see;

your orbit a brief flyby,

fearful of my gravity.

I’ll keep yearning

for the touch of far-off

celestial bodies

out here where endless

horizon can hold me,

and you’ll burn up

on re-entry,

blaze become

ash become

memory.

[moondadpoems]

this morning

I forgot to miss you

until your memory

came rushing back

like an unexpected

downpour, the dark clouds 

of Carolina summer afternoons

rolling into my mind.

the storm cleared

just as quick as it arrived,

the sun making a show of

lazy blue hills on the horizon;

the story of you no longer

whispering poems

into my impressionable ear.

but the dirty wet pavement

glimmers and stinks of

tempests and nostalgia

and I am learning how

to be a poet with no muse

[moondadpoems]

already it smells of honeysuckle

and the thick wet air of summer

catches in my throat.

I wanted to claim you;

sink in my teeth and make you

surrender to feeling:

my body’s soundtrack

your thundering heartbeat

as you flush and shudder

under me so new. 

I wanted to worship

all of the places you are soft

and gasp with surprise at

all of the places you are hard,

watching the ripe peach of you

come apart so sweetly

at my command.

I wanted to blister

from the raw heat of you, of

where I would have liked

you to be: full lips plush

on mine, on skin, on slick;

your tongue spilling the secrets

of my body.

already it smells of honeysuckle

and the almost of your memory

catches in my throat.

[moondadpoems]

I’d always imagined

how my river would look

through your eyes, could I

have shared it with you:

banks grown back wild

under the bluest skies,

remnants of stumps and swings,

the gorgeous shit brown 

of the slow-flowing water–

I mean, the whole thing

is full of E. coli anyway.

maybe we were the geese

swimming upstream when I

was grieving you before

you were gone.

still, a cardinal alights on

a branch of my favorite tree;

a bug lands on my shin,

thinking my tattoo a flower;

I put cucumbers on my

sandwiches and almost don’t

think of you as I reclaim

the way I see the world.

[moondadpoems]

one month now with no you

feels more gentle than I expected

after this chokehold you had

on my mind.

I’ve been The Fool: I’ve picked

petals from poppies and cried

into chicken nuggets;

cooked meals for my ancestors

and fancied myself a cosmonaut

of alternate universes.

I cannot say how often my pen

will still sing of you, after

one year of poet and muse,

but I know that even with no you,

the world has still brought me spring.

[moondadpoems]

don’t

tell me how to behave.

I’m long overdue for

letting my mind be this

feral thing, running

wherever he pleases.

I have no time for your

polite inkstains; your

idle susurrations–

I’m chasing this hunger

I never knew I had

for the skin-bared sweat

of high summer; too hot

for dew but drenched by

the electric thrill of

afternoon thunderstorms.

if my wantonness

offends you, good–

I’ll keep dancing ‘til

I become one with the

river.

[moondadpoems]

I always thought I’d sink gently into love,

but there I was, flattened by emotion.

in retrospect, I should’ve listened to my pride;

to the face staring back at me from the river.

now I pick the petals from my black dahlias,

one by one, a grievance or a curse,

casting you as the villain in my story;

and I try to use this futile anger,

and I try to forget your smirking visage,

and I try to finally let fade this feeling of

you

prompt by: @smittenbypoetry

[moondadpoems]

sometimes I still wonder if

the nocturne of your keyboard’s

click and clack

sings you through ‘til dawn.

write me no aubade

as your city lights give way to sun;

gladly I sleep alone

to greet the periwinkle sky.