Tag Archives: sleep

That Late Night Brain Stomp – –

Around and around and around
Old music and idiot conversation
Like a heartbeat out of rhythm
Forms a buzzing, blurry halo
Rising smoke of nothing
Rays and waves that bounce
From sharp corners and dark walls
And back again ready to be relaunched
Peristaltic contraction of noise – –

Heavy breath of jittery loneliness
Smoke in your eyes, smoke in mine
And a warm electricity
From the higher belly
In a sharp arc up the back
Spreads from the shoulders
Tendrils, wings or bloodstains
Jerked up the neck in a sharp breath
And wreathing the base of
The skull to radiate
In rings from a place
Between the eyes – –

I am sunk deep in an amber
Haze that soon will ramp
Up to an electric blue
And lose its radiation
As the evening trudges forward
And slips backward
Like escaping oxygen
Into the closing creeping
Mindlessness of sleep – –

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Here, after

Caught
below my throat
Somewhere between the collarbones, grief in a hard cold knot

The smallness and isolation,
alone with you
awake

The ‘oh’
of your breath
lost in roaring stillness
tumbled across that silent gulf
wrecked on my back, soft around the shoulders
vulnerable to the hoped-for and dreaded bridging strike
of a murmured word, or the electric touch of
fingertips spreading, to gentle
the landing of a soft palm
to draw from my chest
the sluggish blood
of doubt

Inhabit all of me
with the fire of you
together and large and
awake with me
to go
with you
to sleep

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And good night.

I do a thing lately where I wake up in a sweat, like a sick hamster or a thoroughbred, and I discover the night is no longer what I thought it was.  Black. Blue.  Washes of ink failing to stifle the piercing light of a billion angry stars.  Instead it’s turned to yellow, dark yellow, bright yellow struggling off that same inky oppressiveness with some meager success.  In the yellow there are things that bite and bleed and die, but not in here.

So I’m awake in a yellow night and the back of my neck is crawling and clammy.  Not a good start to a liedown.  Pillows only get two sides and neither one is any good.  It’s too warm for this scrap of a blanket and too cold without.  Something in the order of things is robbing me of sleep, one light one neck one pillow one blanket at a time.

But that’s fine!  I’m too old to sleep in and too young to get up on time.  Some people call this the “magic hour”.  It used to have something to do with witches.  Laying in the tepid heat, you can feel the air catch its breath, choke for breath, grasp for that final relief before the flesh of the night is melted back and sunlight punches its way into windows with a big FUCK YOU.

And me, I’m a part of this now, suspended, waiting for the punch or the punchline.  Good night. Good morning. Good evening.

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Marack Friesach

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