The moon is waxing gibbous, my verse wanes
as I build to my closing, five stress whimper,
tomorrow’s sky will host a round, blank page,

and my work will be done before September
draws the dark across the lunar face
and piddles on the summer’s final embers,

so Dante can stop spinning in his grave.



Some can argue it was poetry
that sent us to the moon and that science
was but the tool for realising dreams

while others may say that the main agent
of inspiration was the Soviet threat,
a pissing contest for world dominance,

to fly the flag in view of our planet.
But on the day that Armstrong leaves the earth
for a third time, the footprint that he set

on that dry surface will hold greater worth
for all the unborn stargazers to the come
than any flag that signals who was first

among the proud tribes of our shrinking home.


I heard that the Chinese call this moon—
huge and beaming orange, on the line
that scissors out the fringe of South London—

an evil moon. I clamber at the scene,
fail to catch it with my camera,
the light so rare and fragile, so I glean

whatever dodgy frames of memory
can last within my cortical hard drive,
all locked up in my neural armoury.

Its dead glare let’s me know that I’m alive.

Canto CXVI

Suburbia for Christmas, nothing like it,
a low half moon, no towers in the way.
It’s been a while since I last trod in dogshit

while gazing at the wide December sky.

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