Description: working 55 hour weeks + being a self-confessed insomniac subsisting on roughly 5 hours of sleep a night = one grouchy bandit in general.
note to self: go to sleep, asshole -------------------------------------------
no mention
to what
you describe
in what you
assume to
be a red
balloon arcing
toward double
helix rainbows
crushed between
stamen and
pearl and broken
headphones still
warbling in
that static
random
nothingness
pervading
this still
yet smoky
air which
could give
birth any
time soon to
a bluebottle
baby strangled
by its
own
umbilical
insomnia.
i myself sleep at least ten hours a day. at night i just lie there resenting my lover's blissful show-off snores.
(sometimes i elbow him, and claim i did it by mistake while searching for the cool side of the pillow)
i'd comment further, but i am terribly superstitious.
O wretched poet that I am!
who shall ticket me for dysfunctioning
under the influence on the superhighway
of the adrenal death spiral before I am murdered by an incoherent drifter...
as i was saying before in a blur the other day...
i never suffered from lack of sleep until now. (i think this is what is making me so super-sensitive). (sheesh, i don't think i have cried this much in years). my mom always says: you were a sleepy child. and now makes me drive long trips, so she can talk to me, instead of watching me sleep.
too, i have always been able to find the zzzzz'z anywhere. it was a tell tale sign that i was comfortable, if i fell asleep on one's couch.
between night sweats and a rammy mind, dreams seem non-existent these days. i am so sad about that. for seriously!!!
anyhoo, in your jase-way, you put it down and let us know where you are. and [censored], if i could just find the words of a poem for once, maybe i wouldn't feel so [censored]ty about it all.
...... goodness,
this is me [with the smoke added, just for poetic licence.. i mean arn't all bohemian types supposed to be most creative in a smoky environment]
i have that umbilical wrapped dangerously around my neck....
well, apart from freaking me out [for a minute only, since i never really thought you would describe my existence]
i found myself drawn into this one.
unfortunately,
i now have to go and face a pile of coursework
that needs attention before the morning.
i love the crazy images in this, the formatting is effective and, the way you tell us how it is makes it for me. cheers!
Do you sometimes prescribe poems on James Dean sides of tracks to engage different parts of the brain or
is it only that you like the thought of readers spinning round the skyheld broom and then running left to crash into right facing walls? :)
I very much like the reference to the balloons. As you progress through the poem there's the strange effect of feeling drawn higher the further you progress down the words and you know you can't just keep defying odds.... there has to be a pop somewhere....higher...higher...
at the same time there's the embryonic near-stasis with it's distortions of sound that to an outsider seem like and suggest a spacewalk... and I guess we're all outsiders now because you only womb walk once-- unless you are very small (and what man would admit to that?)
I'm sure I didn't follow this the whole way through and I'm growing to like that. It's another excuse to return to the poem or to read the comments others leave. I was interested in the assumption. I guess as it relates to the title it simply means you can't find sleep.
The stamen and pearl interested me too as if it's a genetic marker for the bluebottle baby
"umbilical insomnia" *pop*
and of course I can relate, work is a constant Everest
and 5 hours sleep will let you know that fast.
Get yourself a mind mantra and repeat it and don't you dare think in poetry or count the dwindling hourly increments left open to sleep.
Submission Name: note to self: go to sleep, asshole
