I wince when I recognize that the yellow moon outside my window is laughing steadily at me. It is lurid, rotten stinking like sweat in a heated room. Rags dripping with the mould of a yellowish desire; a want to one day engross the catapults of a tumultuous youth. Ready, steady? Lifting off into the wonderous heavens you sit there to judge us all, broken in your wretched soul. You are castrated as a woman: called Luna. IN reality you are burly and jovial with a jutting nose. Man on the Moon, crusty curds rind the moles of your cheeks, unflagged territory. Keep laughing, Luna, for I will die one day and you will just keep floating.