Green Cheese

Pensioned off and lonely, the moon composes mime,
reflecting back redundant stars for earth desires no rhyme
for love or life or hope or light. The need has left us now
that mystery's naivete, emotion's sacred cow.
Our object minds don't fantasise for love or life or hope,
when lack of light leaves blindness, and fantasy must grope.
Romance has U-turned, keeping hold of moons and lights and stiils
of hearts and flowes. Suitcase packed, it's heading for the
hills.
Yet pencilled in, in diaries of men across the world
remain the dates of quarter moons and stories tightly furled,
great tales of hearts which hurled and healed in time with evening
skies,
which once controlled the beat of life by colouring with lovers'
eyes.
Idyllicism's haste to flee from sloth left this behind,
but no-one values images. Reality can find
a clearer home in profit, thus we're merely asteroids
of past romantics, mass produced on coloured celluloid.
We all need friends to talk to on this day in heavy June,
for diaries and memories are fading much too soon.
The art to drag them back is one that only just survives
in satisfaction, not contrasting yours with others' lives.
No one greed in the world for us when all the rest have more.
No courtship of good synonyms when antonyms make war.
No need to wait the ship's return when all men are at sea,
and life and all who sail in her are whining to be free.
To wander forward, to the past, before the bridges burn,
just think, to read the colours, find a hope, and then return.
The moon might well freeze warm, might well caress the dowdy
land,
might sprinkle down its gold to form a goblet in your hand.
The rivers spin and sweep and swirl to heal the cracking soil;
in such dreams linger mastery, as stories fast uncoil.
But dreams are like Gomorrah, being hot and black and bare,
and truth is in tomorrow, in be certain and beware.
I'll take you to the city, let it reinforce its grime
on both our lives. We'll watch the sun depose the rest of time.