Under The Full November Moon by Ian Lewis Copestick

Under a large, round, yellow
Full November moon
The chill of the cold, dark night
Slips in through my window
It fights against the central heating
To send a  shuddering shiver
Down my spine

Under the full November moon
People spill out of smoky pubs
Leaving heat, light, music.
A false inebriated happiness
To stagger, swirling home
To warm beds of love
Or  cold, empty houses
And late night T.V.

Under the full November moon
Teenager's breath leaves
Clouds in the air, hanging heavy.
Mingling with smoke from
Serruptitious spliffs
Held in cupped hands
Hanging around shops, parks
Even the disappearing phone boxes
Feeling the arrogance of youth
Course through their veins

Under the full November moon
The middle aged sit
In armchairs with tea mugs
T.V. droning, as they dream
Of their youth, when they were
Slim and beautiful
Or hungry and virile
Before it all slipped
So quickly away

Under the full November moon
Swingers swap flesh and fluids
In hotels and motels
With no more passion or emotion
Than passing the salt

Under the full November moon
Prostitutes haul their tired, aching bodies
From car to car, for the price of a hit
Dealers swagger, stoked full of crack
With all the power and arrogance
Of medieval lords

Under the full November moon
People sweat in police cells
Under itchy, grey blankets
On blue, rubber mattresses
In a white tiled nightmare

Under the full November moon
I think of them all
As I sit writing lines
In a cheap, lined notepad
I drink my last beer
Then I turn out the lights
As the full November moon
Bids goodnight
To us all

Ian Lewis Copestick is a 46 year old writer (I prefer that term to poet ) from Stoke on Trent, England. I spend most of my life sitting,  thinking then sometimes writing. I have been published in Anti Heroin Chic, the Dope Fiend Daily, Outlaw Poetry, Synchronized Chaos, the Rye Whiskey Review, Medusa's Kitchen and Horror Sleaze Trash.