Insomnia Part II - the Sandman Deserts
It’s 3.27 am.
The drunken brawlers have left
Saturday street behind,
to upload their video clips to Youtube.
Next door’s dog has stopped
howling at door slams, taunting cats
and whistling pedestrians.
The but-ones are not having a scream
on their doorstep about
that slapper from accounts.
My mattress is lumpy.
The curry I had earlier
is making wind in the pillows
and the naan bread has wrapped itself
around my middle
like a doughy girdle.
I listen closely to the mould on my wall
Car headlights turn my room
into a stuttering discotheque
with the sound turned down.
A breeze sends paper skittering
on tarmac, emptying recycling boxes.
My clothes hang, polyester skins
waiting to be fleshed out,
worn out, accessorised properly.
God, these pillows are flat.
I try relaxation, breathing techniques.
I end up thinking that, one day,
even respiration will stop.
The night has teeth, sharp angles
made more dangerous
by stumbling around with closed eyes.
Mine stay resolutely open.
I don’t know why I can’t sleep.
Clare Hill © 2008
My hat is not made of tin foil,
that wouldn’t be cool, I’m no turkey.
(Am I, perhaps, a little chicken?)
In twenty-eighty metallic will be all the rage
but I’ll be Lucy in the Sky by then.
My cap has no name emblazoned on it,
no triumph of advertising vision here,
just a peak that limits eyesight.
It protects me from strangers, aeroplanes,
and stops the sky from falling in.
I don’t have to look at what scares me,
A chin strap would be nice, just in case
the wind tried to wrench it from me
or a pigeon took a fancy to black cord.
Sod it, I’ll stay inside, become a hermit,
order groceries online,
accept substitutes for out-of-stock items
and real life.
I’ll wear my hat, exist virtually in a world
where nothing can hurt me
(except for modem trouble.)
I want a bubble,
impermeable, keeping the outside out.
I have a hat,
the dye runs when it rains.
I stay inside to keep it dry,
I have to look after it,
to avoid damage,
She smiles at me
you can’t see her
she is beneath my skin
her mouth a pale scar
keloid on my arm
she speaks to me
you can’t hear her
she whispers my name
her tone bewitching
hate bitch you are shit
she laughs at me
you prefer her
she is sexy
I am as nothing
compared to her
she compels me
a serrated blade
drawn across my skin
setting her free.
Leaving me trapped.
Clare Hill © 2008