the january moonlight is drowning me. light as white as bone and half as brittle, she stays a little. twenty-one stars in the sky, it's too early. you're awaiting a golden lover. both god and the mother she's watching you wander further and further. cheeks stung by the cold you wonder; is this it? the trees answer on her behalf. each whisper a reminder. you ought to be kinder, a body divine discarded. fragile capricorn. to break over and over. was it worth it? are you satisfied, i made constellations in your eyes but that wasn't enough. a lover made of gold. they'll fix you, stroke your hair and kiss, kiss your cheeks harder than the wind. is it possible for too many roses to grow on your skin? the loveliest marks. be patient, these stars will fall down and bring you your sparks. keep following the path. twenty-one will turn to twenty-two, that's the one thing the moon can promise you.
on the 6am train the men smell like my father; red bull, cigarettes, dried cement - they wake up like my father i feel safe in this carriage, these men are my father, any man with a van and one arm out the window, sunburnt from the elbow down - the infamous builder’s tan - seats so dusty i can’t breathe and i have lungs like my father, full of second-hand smoke and concrete, a touch of asbestos, i should weep for my father but my pockets are healthy i am told by my father whose hands shake as he brings another beer to his lips at 10am on a saturday morning, this is coping for my father these men cope - cope like my father - with the asbestos lungs, uneven tans, shaking hands, muscles in constant pain, water on the brain, the ever encroaching grasp of old age; with substances up the nose they unwind like my father this kind of masculinity doesn’t last forever, you know...
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