The Sleep PoemHorrified by the sunburnt intrusion of an excess hourNullified two hours ago - now barely a greyscapeI worry about who's gone, not who's going.A hypnosporic cyclone,You told that loved toad-being enough,he would be told too much, that much is known.Got a real rose planted up that shoot?Oh, I'm sorry - he's working only nights too. Pharmokinetics, pharmotechnicsand onto night two.Pure untreated vodka and people who party against glass-this city was not meant to last.Their faces sliding against the first floor pane, intoxicatedand young with synthetic prowesswhile I try and remember my brain's way ofspelling my own name, a little dazzled by the bug. I'm not sure he was real-his movements staggered and shadowed.A thunderous storm in my head,hemispherically phobic-now disappearing againwith the afterimage of the Hindenburg imprinted on my eyes.We feel it better to stay in prison,even after a week in the mass grave.No shame, you're so weakyou'll make a v
The WarHow much could I destroy?The body countthat would mount like salt being sievedleaving others on salinefor this life I have lived.A year going strong is a year too long,the incendiary second opinion-the sparks and the bombs.The stalemate stretched out and they show no remorse,and me with my chemical weaponsof course.Third degree burns and all the world turnsto the lullaby beat of theirlack of concern.I may still have eyes -glassy, vacuous and unable to cry.But there will be a thud in the most vital of signs-and there will be me, skeletonised.
AnesthesiaA ruffling, a shufflingthrough my pocketsas the tick-tock clock clicksdemanding that one daythis all stops and thickensmy lot.A stick, a piece of firewoodrustles amongst the baredead leaves, oh wakefulness-leave me please.The cinder blockis locked - chocked full of those thingswe've long forgot.An angle on the wall,meaning in the way it danglesoff the black and gold,but meaningless to all whotangle in the norm.I should've forgot,forgetting's now the only thing I've got.