POST ARIES FULL MOON
"although our bodies recoil from the grip of the soil, why the long face?"
in a dream, my mother and I fuss over the buttercream bursting from the seams of the kitchen cabinet
do i need to do it? is it required of me? if so, why is it required? is it justified? does it make sense? what happens if i don't do it? how would i benefit, either way? why do it?
a chemtrail of questions follows me around like a child.
would you eat me? would you really take me into me? into you? the table standing straight, fruiting. take me there. our mellified body ripe, as undefined as my open centers and, based on my taste cognition i've come to this conclusion;
i've fought with bitterness all my life, that worthy foe dementing the metal cage, convinced i belong nowhere, the empty chair holding a drink, unnoticed
and yet i've come to know; you don’t know. you know. i know. i don't know. i press into you like a drawer sliding shut. my thud. your full space. not/ unlike being filled by you. i am there even if the wave goes decimated against the swollen rocks
"I have some business out at the edge of town; candy weighing both of my pockets down” —Joanna Newsom
my pockets full of glittering sensuous flesh. that cadent slant of H3, H9, H12. . . me, clumsy spinster in the void, the moon putrefied full in my 12th house— i considered asking you, if there's anything you'd like me to see or taste while i'm out?— i am no mule and the candy will be gone by then, but— i came to feel my own question pointlessly. yet, the offer still stands in retrospect and for you, i will time travel; my throat can carry multiple eyes, knocking marbles clunking plastic chips, babbles of books, dice made from a fingerbone pointing the way amidst bramble and berry.
I've begun to put more of my weight into post-posts; the aftermath of chitter chatter and tearing away and loving toward. I don't find it particularly alluring to write prediction, to claim what you will experience. i don't know what that will be, only you. so, i think, i'd rather share in the aftermath of spoilt and blind moons. this particular past Aries full moon lighting up those murderous children, the mean pixies drunk on milk running electronic, runny. my body pumping blood, electric, my dog remote viewing with each inhale. Libra season summoned donnie darko and, in the fall of the Sun, Frank emerges plasticine and putrid. drenched in fur.
Puer, I'm still caught up thinking about you. wounded and howling, spurting oil in Gemini, both your own keeper and kept; making eyes at Puella from across the way in Libra she licks the Sun's neck her tongue combust, no
the moon is her own dimension
Saturn watches in the distance as Sun and Venus approach his trine, singing, and though our bones may break and souls separate, why the long face? although our bodies recoil from the grip of the soil, why the long face?
the moon in chorus, sextile or cosmic chainmail, sings sweetly back; from the top of the flight, of the white white stairs, through the rest of my life, do you wait for me there
xxo,
s
*all italicized portions by Joanna Newsom*
Banging