new moon waxing

reels after endless reels of my memory. 
there you slither in and out.
i get febrile. below zero. 
gracefully. when it suits me.

still..
i am.
the organ grinder.
the ring master.
i still hold the whip.
i can help
summon your demons
effortlessly. please let me.

blue moon

lunarically bangag.
radioactive ID in full throttle.
sing to me, O muse, of your BCT melancholia
of the stellar murmurings of your amygdala
of the cacophonous batrachomyomachian voices in your soup
and of your bruce-almightyish 2nd-rate-trying-hard-copy-paste parting of it
shall i falsetto my replies ?
perhaps i shall even beatbox it!
perhaps perhaps perrrrr--haps!