Werewolf Moments

The realization that life is just a succession of Hollywood moments strikes. It is bullshit that the world is an edgeless orb, that man would have dared to walk on the moon, that the sun is the source of all life on Earth. The truth, the power, the control, lies in the moon. You know this because you are tipping off the edge of the earth as the moon blots out the sky, and drinks your soul in quick, painful greedy slurps that only feel like an eternity.

Cool cotton sheets against your cheek, satin against you skin fade as your hand reaches, gropes, claws to hold onto some sense of what you know of reality. Your eyes blink and it is gone into the howl of wind against your face. There is only the primal race through a mind of thick brush under swift feet, flanked by fat, fingered firs stretching up to reach the mother moon in this forested landscape of the instinctual hunt that ends with full mouthed satiation.

Morning light crashes to slow motion temporal disreality. The warm, soft glow on the grain of the oak floor is scarred by thick, dark gashes of debris embedded mud. The soft breathe of the day’s breeze rips the gossamer cream curtains in tattered tales that whisper too low for you to hear.

The scream does not come when your hand trembles as it reaches across to touch the filthy remnants of satin that last night fell in a gentle caress upon a milky breast.

The scream does not break free when your eyes become full moon parodies looking at ragged fingernails caked with dirt and blood. Was that perfect manicure you remember only a dream.

Once more, you reach behind you, you grope, you claw, to stop from falling into black abyss, but blackness, abyss do not come in the light of day, in the glare of the unforgiving sun. The hypnotic moon is on her month long journey to sleep.

Naked, abandoned, you struggle to hands and knees, so that you might turn around upon this gentle feather bed. Last night’s salvation was merely an illusion and there no longer is a primal hole of forest in which to escape the morning’s horrific brightness.

Day brings only Technicolor red splashed on crisp cotton white and your tongue licking the lingering taste of last night’s kill from the corners of your mouth.

You cannot cry, you cannot scream and you cannot remember anything but the seduction of the moon.

Haunches taut, neck arched, head raised, you howl.