I yearn for a retreat
from my devices &
my vice of red-eyed
hours – do not wake
me – space spills in
as funnelling sand &
bottles of spilt wine
knocked back in my
bowl-sized cut glass
Instead – pull emptied
tumblers & tall flutes
from breakable lips –
do not kiss thin rims
& try to get shut-eye –
Michael – try to sleep
Tag: sleep
Reading Lights
I have slipped into being
one who staves day wear
& who’ll settle to waking
up with Bacalov & books
in his sitting chair below
his reading light – within
reach is his worn remote
My grandfather tuned in
to waves @ distances on
a glowing horizon – other
places – medium & long –
measured in x-kilometres
We both return to voices
on another old continent
But no newspaper barrier
Perhaps a remit for print?
A walk to a newsagent &
my reason to get dressed –
before settling – it is easy
under my long diagnosed
excuse for ageing quickly
And Spin
She was always too innocent –
pious in place – spinning a thin
yarn out of love songs of Ovid
& my over thumbed amorets –
she plagiarized The Art of Love
& broke its spine – antagonised
with folding outs – not discreet
openings & seen one too many
times in public places – a pudor
& then her flighty generations –
Then my exile to an empty bed
where ill sleep is tidal unrests –
here my rolling hull lies broken –
split under my lip-stained sheet
of blank verse – of bare rhymes
& her hard done lip-sync of lies
She never ‘got’ books or poetry
citing her childhood anxieties –
but she could quote her mother
who had helped her spell spindle
& other such troublesome words
stitched together to form her lies
She will pass on her art & craft to
to her graceless daughter – & spin
Night Fishing
You reel in light – disturbed
by thinking’s whipped pulls
on your weightless lines –
not intended to really catch
Sleep is disturbed – it disturbs
with a spinning glinting fish
which is yours – a wide cast
to not knowing what is met
below a slowly-oiled surface
It hooks onto one more loss –
a fix into tender bared flesh
in his bloodied open mouth
Bubbled – his words of hate
spit in a heaved landing net
of bed sheets wet with sweat
And you see – as yet awake?
That glint off slapping scales
in sunlight – he is thrown back
But he still disturbs your night
There is a translucence
There is a translucence
to my inquiet sleeping
with waking seconds
pulling consciousness in
Do not unglue your eyes
to hold to a small hope
of returns to confusion
to comforting dreams –
such ruses wear thin
in later decades of trying
Give up this hour and
read until your eyes give in