The moon is a hotless child. And I?
A blurred prince that dreamt I saw you
On the front row of a congregation.
You and the preacher-man were in cahoots.
We cleaned up our sins
And the mud off our boots.
There is nothing there now
So why try to bite?
Why try fly a plane
Before flying a kite?
The beginning is over
The end hasn’t come yet
And all there is to care about is now,
Hanging here, now, a branch on a tree
Whether happy or in pain,
I bow, I submit, I endure.
The moon is a hotless child. And I?
I am its long lost brother,
For tonight the bottle is half empty,
Half full of air, half full of poison,
Whichever is better for you.
The moon is a hotless child. And I?
The hapless father of a lukewarm generation.
Where is the fruit of my long suffered alternative
philosophy?
Where is the organic home grown apple of my eye?
What ails the men at arms,
Fighting for a slither of originality?
How comes such valour with so little reward?
Where is the son? Where is the Sun
Of glorious pastimes,
Glorious passed times,
Glorious past times;
The offspring of creativity itself
In a lukewarm bath of befuddlement
And lack of sincere aim?
The moon is a hotless child. And I?
A frozen lunatic.
Marred by my own bewilderment
By my own ineptitude
By my own lack of foresight
By my own fuzzy logic and indecisiveness,
Though as of yet not hoisted by my own placard.
A blurred prince?
To say the least. Boots clean,
And you on the front pew,
In the cockpit,
Dancing in the orchard,
And manipulating solar spheres,
While your hands still shake
When you strike a match.
The moon is a hotless child. And I?
The day after tomorrow’s dawn.
Though as of yet, I’m undecided.
