Snow II

So, man-in-the-moon! You're not bored of puking yet? And still on you puke, same as yesterday, puking your own ejaculate up - everyone knows the moon is made of ejaculate - made wholly of his own ejaculate in fact - and so just now you've puked it down into the clouds again, and so down it snows, your spacedust, spraying itself over the city, squirting up against the windows, sloshing along the streets. Proud of your city-soaking cum, Mister man-in-the-moon?

Pah, your snow is not so special. How many times have I found myself shuffling up and down his best-buddy late at night, the lights off, stood against the attic window, staring over the rooftops and offices and parks and churches? Over the schools and hospitals and cemeteries? The roads and museums, riches and rapes, murders and marvels? The skyscrapers and sewers?

And suddenly, it all disintegrates: the city is coated in white as if under a flash of lightening, his feeble friend is sagging, like the chubby chins of the elderly (but a lot smaller), and his face has lost interest in reflections. And I fist am unchanged, unchanging and unchangeable, dryer and harder than the moon.