feet up the wall
music beckoning a shout in my ear,
the possibility of that drawer...
I wasn't reimbursed for it, so
hell, I might as well spend it
we're all sanity to lose
if not yet lost, coming -
"all's not lost," said they -
well who is 'they'? And who's
authority have I?
to lend my own ear to
something conjured up on a Sunday night, Sunday
morning, mourning the loss of
hungover jogs through the city
(some of the times in which I feel most alive)
morning drags me towards itself,
through sleep
I come out the other side
dishevelled, more lethargic than
when I entered my non-existent dreams
in unspoken hours,
having imagined how I was sleeping
in other beds, in other seasons, in other countries
with other conditions
Parkfield, Central Park
it's just a dodgy anagram, really
poor thing's lost a few letters
gained some it never meant to
found itself backwards
man, I understand that,
understand being
flat-backed on the bed
book in hand
totally immersed, but
not getting out.
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