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Can’t sleep.
your voice loops through my head like a song
whispering in hushed, static tones, like church bells
ringing atop a cathedral somewhere in paris,
1942. Soon the machine guns will come to find me too.
and my eyes flicker, staring at the ceiling in my room,
counting the stucco, bleeding myself dry.
another three am threatens to pass me by in
an instant, a momentary blink, through my body cold:
a phantasmal image of your touch. Roll over, crash.

can’t sleep.
writing poems like falling off a cliff, arms outstretched,
grasping at stone, thread or even the air as my descent
brings me closer to the ground, or what’s left of it. And
these days I seem to be growing tired of finding inspiration
in jagged rocks and the unrelenting sea,
the depths of human depravity, the ocean as vast as the bottom
of this bottle. I want a new exit strategy. I desire a grander master plan.
something with a bit more spark and emphasis,
a little more romance and tangibility, a new script
for a new sound, a new audience to tremor my bones
and carve me new skin to sleep in.

can’t sleep.
comforted only by the faint glow of my typewriter,
the way it sparkles only at night, the day revealing its
deformities, the ugly way it scowls, the feelings of hatred
it omits, setting fire to my soul, but at night we dance,
slowly against the backdrop of the moon.
The earth playing the role of majestic gramophone,
gently places a needle in us and we fever dream to the sounds
which loop through my head like a song,
like a church bell,
like eternity.
wherever i am, these nights will find me
because i am awake and the music plays so bittersweet.

– r.f.g


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