Original of text translated into Polish to be read on stage by Warsaw’s Lee DVD during the Cosy Brown Snow shows in Gdansk, Warsaw and Krakow in December 2008.
The English version was subsequently published in Paraphilia Magazine, issue No 3:
Moon Suite
Mother! Father! Wherever you are!
Mother! Father! Pray for me now!
The harvest has turned sick in the night, and the woods – where you walked with your spade across your shoulder – sigh and groan in the midnight wind. You strip bark from the birch branch and whip the air, the heaving ground beneath your feet. The heather, moss, lichen, stone.
And the moon did say…
She makes the shapes of animals in the old style
And recalls her younger form
She lights tall candles…
Flicker little scheme lights. These aimless, formless eyes open to the endless night sky
She wandered twenty-five years from the moment at hand and still there is ten years of silence between here and there.
Out here, high on Black Hill, I can just about hear the bar empty its throat into the street
Full moon, full of grace
Embrace the cloud
And hide your face
A teardrop fell from a distant star
For a thousand years
It came so far
To die alone, so poor, so lost
On a lonely hill
In a bed of frost
Graceful Moon, Spiteful Star…
And the moon did say…
The promise is there, you know. But the light is very subtle. Like moonlight on frost
Graceful Moon, Spiteful Star…
And the moon did say…
Take your clothes off. I want you naked and cold
Graceful Moon – your mouth tastes violent,
Spiteful Star – you’ve got dirt under your fingernails
And the moon did say – as if to a sparrow caught between the panes of glass in your open window…
I have never seen one so fragile as you
Graceful Moon – you cup your hand against my cunt,
Spiteful Star – It’s as close as you’ll get to consolation
These new tits are my currency
(pray for me now)
I do not read. I have no money. I have no power.
I have been designed this way.
(It feels like they’re laughing, like they’re laughing at me)
To love, to not be hurt…
I have never questioned my crying. No-one ever asked me why.
(It feels like they’re laughing, like they’re laughing at me)
Sometimes, it’s like the silver coin of the moon
is tossed, like alms for the poor,
across the cold, midnight sky.