Andrew Wells

 

 

 

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.

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