Zero Four Thirty

For a man who has done his natural duty,
death is as natural as sleep.
GS

Here we meet again –
you are no longer a friend –
you the jolt – the waking itch –
the drug’s portend

This unnatural discontent –
which sleep is for me –
it is a sickly thing

It is as if rest itself
is my disease –

It is as if my register
of a simple expectation –
of a longed-for sopor –
no longer allows its admit

Yet I will drift in daytime’s
impolite light
with eyelids weighted
by the night –
just enough
to stop me seeing things

This puzzle of so many pieces
which darkness has become
You my new foe –
my agonist – my bedlam

County Lines

There – incongruous in khaki
among the lurid colours of youth –
two sallow lads sat by the tunnel
at the love-etched bench

as if recovering from a hundred years
of trench warfare with their coughs
whilst the younger troops are bound
to school desks and repeated tasks

The soldiers’ drugs are sweet perfume
above the sour rot and kicked mud
of the early hints of a winter campaign
across county lines with bunched fists

Drugs

Which drugs work?
Well anything illegal,
plus doses of alcohol,
or inhaling some freedom:

Not television-consumption,
and the inanity of such,
which is foul humdrum,
remove that crutch.

Let me read Ginsberg,
howl wild words ’bout sex,
meet strangers to talk to,
but not to fuck (not yet),

because fucking strangers
brings swabs of bad luck,
which need more meds
and I’ve said drugs suck!

Let me loose on the world
before it dissolves,
let me lose this shit time,
before the shit takes hold.