Howl at the Moon

The moon pulls his at collar like a long lost lover
The clouds chase the headlines as the crowds duck for cover
He chews at his words before they fall from his lip
His chest littered with reason-crumbs and Freudian slips

The wind blows a chord between the buildings and sky
Rattles the times on the no-parking signs
The street takes his footsteps without batting an eye

The sky draws back a fist in the colour of night
Scatters rain stars across his black-shouldered flight
He looks through his brow at the passing parade
Spits in the teeth of this cold wet charade

He sees himself reflected in the glass passing by
A silhouette, a spectre, a wandering chalk outline
Whose thoughts must accept what the other ghosts deny

That the world is a question of answer bereft
That the culture of gain is tinted with theft

That the powers that be don’t care who you are
And the path to extinction may leave a visible scar

On the face of a planet that will surely survive
The loss of the fruit from this self-centred hive

So the leaves levitate at the level-crossing gate
Where he waits for the train and tries to compensate
For the rise in his head and the anger and hate
And all of the day’s superficial debate

The night birds flap in his mind awoken
Whispering words that are better not spoken

March 2009

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