The Moon

The moon has never seemed to me to hang in the sky. It looks as though it has been pushed into the sky and the sky has bent slightly to accommodate it. Imagine pushing a sickly yellow pus-coloured coin into a piece of thick, dark brown cloth. The poems and stories written concerning the moon, though forever perplexed, have been lost on me. Maybe I can’t see the beauty of the moon through the haze of smog and the toxic condensation that has taken up permanent residence on my eyeballs. The thought of the moon being anything other than a vomit stain on the sky to me is wholly alien. How does such a thing create such admiration and intrigue? The mythology surrounding the moon is generally highly sexual. Both its undertones and overtones. I think the moon is an excuse to go crazy, rip off your clothes, grow your hair and fuck anything that moves. People just want to do that. The moon is disgusting. My apologies to Stephanie Meyer.