shady side of the moon

They get inside you somehow

& make everything wet & dirty

where it ought to be shiny clean.

Rust your heartgears so they grind, & slide

oiley and viscous, discolouration

down the inner wall of the chest;

they splash & flail & muddy the water

till grit clogs the tubes & pressure builds

& hairline cracks burst so everything leaks & mixes

& turns to a sludge of passion that settles heavy

just behind your stomach,

where you think your heart probably ought to be

but it isn't.