Night Sweats

Never write
about your sweated dreams
or sleep beyond each sunrise

You will not shake off
those fallacious night beads

There are no secrets left
in my head

And waking late
to such a foul mouth grog
does my humour no good

Good God
Do not listen to this shit

We ran painless and fluid
We were wanton again

Do not return to me
in my sheet-damp dreams

Before An Alarm

I am abraided at five AM
to another sung summoning
of loud bird light beyond
my night-bared sash panes –

but was thankfully deaf
in those dark hours earlier
to returning songs of drunks
on their way back from clubs

with their waved polystyrene
trophies of spilling chips –
that mayonnaise trail of fun
runs drip-drip-dripped away

Let me slip from this long itch
and find release from stiffness –
as it was in my lost night
of splendent working dreams

Instead – only a cooling rinse
under that wide shower head
and then a return to this bed
and cold emollient for my skin


 

Not Undressed

Last night there was
an uncured intimacy
between three old lovers
of common threads
These damaged nights
are my fluid playground
of sex and rekindled
offset stuff – old urges
and displaced motives
which will take this day
to loosen off and unknot
from that second place –
reached far too early
when nightmares broke
whilst I was still dressed
and bound by my state
of delayed readiness
for those long night’s game
of subconscious plays

A Casting Couch

Again – a rolled-eye look upon you – a lost lover
in muddling dreams – with me as your interloper
who pulls at those fetters you forged when away//
We had made our tugged bonds in bicycled years
when curious games stopped at bare cliff edges//

My role in this slept future is as a limping outsider
writing cinematic recall of my much-dreamt scenes
between us// Ages ago – we shared flat beer and lovers –
rounded turns as we sunk our pounds into pints
and did low crimes before spread cathode light//

Back then we had fewer things to switch between//
None feature now in my sleep’s three-part act
of sweated sheets// Now our phantom presences
are acted by sleep’s bit-part reveries –
so close to the choices we made without a script


 

The Dew Pond

I have woken to
that occasional weight
of the chain mail
of another night sweat

but now it is winter –
my cycle-kicking
of the layered sheets
has no drying effect

I lie in wait for a miracle
but revert to dancing
blindly to the bathroom
to dab my dew ponds

This uneasiness
in my places of aches –
of Song-writing Disease –
could be helped

by flicking the switch
but such light –
such selfish luxury –
would wake you

As I towel myself down
I remember in waking
that you are not here
and will not be woken


E140119

Zero Four Thirty

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

Here we meet again
you no longer a friend
you jolt – a waking itch
this drugged 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 more allows it to admit

Yet we 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

E100419

3am

These are such long hours
in this slumbered house –
that only I ever know –

so being only mine to own
when the wall clocks talk
to no one else but me –

there is no competition
for chairs or channels
as the left alone wifi flows –

I unlock the back door
and let the dawn air flood
the breath-staled room

shorting the summer’s heat
that had been held over
from another day now gone –

which was all that remained
of a small part of my history –
a short story I’ll never repeat.

Inner

The intimacy of it
has been shelved –
I use the phrase
side-lined as well

The heat reduced
is also true –
I woke to the shunt
of a drunkard’s spew

A four AM throw up
of booze-necked shit –
the uniformed kids
will side step it

These hours are mine
before any one else –
No opened eyes
in my unslept house