Blue Moon
I
blue moon from
drunk-ship said
I watch the purple-milk lake
& though my head
is ugly no
head has any use
II
rusted smear
or rain
by us the lake
is language
together
we needed it
III
time
devours me
though the whisperer
inside a beat
‘s at my chest
a black hand comes over it all
IV
an end to everything
was predicted
after black dust
last month
I woke to sunrise
in Rome’s wide street
V
my dreams lie
to me
there is no escape
from everything’s
cold death
whatever that won’t be
VI
what bitter ache
for here?
& by shadow
we urge
the raw
through pink
Andrew Wells is a writer and student based just outside of London. His recent work has appeared in HARK magazine and Cyberhex Press, among others.