Click them off like

rosary beads

with accossiated prayers.

Smudge the dreams

into the eiderdown,

And divide them down

inĀ ironed out


Line them up and

gobble them with listless


I am your prediction!

(said in shushes,

quite benediction)

I want to drop like stingless bees.

I am Addiction to Tranquility.

How jealous I am!

Watching him fall on his arse

as I begin the solitary farce

of trying to close my


I watch his chest slowly sink and rise.

How beautiful –

to be cut down,

like grass.

Flophouse drapes of

cigarette smoke

hang from the ceiling in


A headache clings and

holds me close as

daylight stumbles

like a ghost,

and settles her questions

on my pillows.

The tragic thing about each morning

Is that I greet each sleepy dawn

with the dry and

pinkened threat of tears.

Sleepers – do you know the

might of what you do

each fucking night?

The oblivion in half your years?

The fiction of your wild frontiers?

The obliteration and presentation

of all your garbled

Freudian fears?

Do you know the glamour in what you do?

Do you know what I’d give to be like you?

To live and somehow not be here?

To close my eyes?

To disappear?