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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476924" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Moon Isn't Renewing Her Virginity</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The moon isn't renewing her virginity <br>in the snakepits of the hypocrites<br>faking the wavelengths of their radiance<br>like the black dwarf of an imploding commune<br>that flared out like graverobbers in the dark <br>desecrating a cemetery of rainbows. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I've watched the silver shovel of your tongue <br>go through all phases of the moon, from full <br>to new, as if you were laying your Tarot cards <br>out on the table for an autopsy on the Hanged Man. <br>This one's suspended by one leg with a real rope <br>around his neck. You're decked out in dreamcatchers <br>and spider silk like the butterfly bling of a pimp.<br>What are you selling? Peace, love, and happiness <br>at the expense of all else? You chirp you love everyone <br>but you've never loved people enough to learn <br>how to hate them honestly. There heretics burn </div><div style="margin:10px 0">but you're attuned to harmony like a snaketongue <br>of black lightning is to a tuning fork or a lyre <br>to the laryngeal cords of a cheesecutter. <br>You're a wedding cake full of worms. You're <br>a wishbone with one hip lower than the other<br>like the short end of the stick, a black capped chickadee <br>on the lowest rung of the crutch. You emanate. <br>You radiate. You resonate. You alert <br>your sleeping brother like a fire alarm <br>to the god waking up within him, but you exclude, <br>you forget, you reject the real shamans <br>dancing in the shadows of their solitude with a limp. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">If you cram any more beauty into your eyes <br>soon you'll be able to open a jewellery store. <br>God knows how you can love the silver <br>and hate the ore that poured itself out <br>like wine for you as if it were bleeding to death <br>like wild grapes going sour in your mouth.<br>There's more salvation in drinking <br>from your own skull, than sipping<br>like a hummingbird from someone else's grail. <br>You're just baling a moonboat with a black sail <br>and a bucket the bottom hasn't fallen out of yet. <br>Dew blooming on the tips of the tongues <br>of the stargrass, yes, but you can't conceive <br>of the watershed of the abyss it was drawn from. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Your moondogs don't snarl enough to guard <br>the farmyard from the predators that surround you. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">You're water gilding Dachau with a silver lining <br>whenever you look at a black cloud pluming <br>into the night sky like a fumarole<br>of mystically unique people going up in smoke<br>and white wash the dark side of things<br>desecrating their suffering by remarking <br>how wonderful it is their ashes kiss your eyelids <br>like gentle snowflakes of human flesh and bone. <br>Your third eye's got a cinder in it like a stake <br>driven into the iris of a Cyclops. You denigrate <br>the black ops that rescued the rest of the flock <br>from the cave, like a shepherd moon <br>that's never known an eclipse it didn't resent.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The blood and dirt under the fingernails of the moon <br>aren't the terraced gardens of an Incan ruin.<br>If you're looking for a needle in a haystack <br>of sunbeams make sure you don't stick it in the eye<br>of that voodoo doll you carry around with you <br>like the strawdog of a scarecrow at a harvest ritual <br>that's eventually going to go up in heretical flames<br>like Joan of Arc, the witch, not the saint, <br>once her white magic grew irrationally ineffectual.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Most people look for the light to see in the dark. <br>Rinse the night from your mirroring consciousness <br>and you throw the stars out with the womb water <br>of Aquarius. In the urn of what's left, not <br>the translucency of self-cleaning jewels<br>as if your eyes were constantly buffing <br>their own windows with vinegar <br>and yesterday's newspaper full of atrocities <br>that wipe the filth like sunspots off your shining<br>like a patina of print on the faces of the chimney sweepers<br>scraping the creosote and shovelling the ashes <br>of the fireflies out of the furnace. Not enlightenment.<br>But the putrefied residue in the alembic of a bad alchemist, <br>trying to mine gold from lead like a thief of honey <br>from an ant heap of spectacles, and gleaming ingots of teeth.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Patrick+White">Patrick White</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476924" data-title="The Moon Isn't Renewing Her Virginity de Patrick White" data-description="The moon isn't renewing her virginity 
in the snakepits of the hypocrites
faking the wavelengths of their radiance
like the black dwarf of an imploding commune
that flared out like graverobbers in the dark 
desecrating a cemetery of rainbows. 

I'..."></div>
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