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A Lot of Lunatics and a Lot of Rope

a poem about a migrating moon

By emPublished 5 months ago 2 min read
A Lot of Lunatics and a Lot of Rope
Photo by Elizabeth Morgan on Unsplash

“Wear it like a belt, not wrapped around your head.

Or else you’re gonna strangle your self.” I rolled my eyes and said.

The populus of humanity, sheepish in their smile,

Untied the chord from around their necks - it took them a little while.

Then 16 billion eyes watched me from exactly where I stood,

“Now loop it around your waist. Like that. That’s right. Uhuh. That’s good.

Okay, that’s it. You got it. Every body ready for this next bit?”

If I told you we were each tethered to the moon - I swear you’d never believe it.

But in a unison no war would ever believe, united like never before,

Was every human across our globe. Feet planted firmly on the floor.

“One more tug for durability. Everything strapped in? All safe and sound?”

Then, together, with Polaris in sight, we walked Northward across the ground.

“And this will really work?” shouted one bloke in the far back.

He said it from somewhere near Thailand. I think his name was Mac.

“You got any better ideas?” It was rhetorical, but he started to talk.

Still, I closed him down before he could. “No, no, no. Just shut up and walk.”

If you’d told me I’d be leading our species on this whacky quest,

With cosmic ropes wrapped atop our hips, pulling with our heaving chest.

I’d laugh in your face. Call you a lunatic. And probably say something worse.

But here we are, with the moon in tow. We didn’t even get chance to rehearse.

27.4 hours they gave us, to tug our satellite out of place.

Why? Because the ruling government say, “it’s blocking outer space!”

So we must shift it. Move it. Rearrange it. Just shove it out of the way,

“Oh, it won’t be that hard! It’ll take just a little more than a day!”

They supplied us with these lunar chords. Two each. Made aplenty.

Distributed faster than those vaccinations they made back in 2020.

“Think of them like a lasso. And think of the moon like a bull,

All you have to do, collectively, is hook it. And then just simply pull!”

To my surprise, we actually caught it. On the first try for 11 billion.

The last man on Earth to do it, did it in 3. His name was Cillian.

The bit they struggled with the most, though, was how to hold the rope.

“Around our necks?” “With bare hands?” “In my mouth?” I just said, “nope.”

“Wear it like a belt, not wrapped around your head,”

And here we are, all Earthlings together, tugging the moon out of its bed.

“Put your back into it, ladies!” I bellowed loudly and worldwide.

“The quicker we change the moon’s orbit, the quicker we go back inside!”

surreal poetry

About the Creator


I’m a writer, a storyteller, a lunatic. I imagine in a parallel universe I might be a caricaturist or a botanist or somewhere asleep on the moon — but here, I am a writer, turning moments into multiverses and making homes out of them.

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