Look to the east, the burden
of bright expectation.
Brass creeping over the molten horizon,
the call to arms, to limbs still numb.
Stand down sun, I am recalled,
to the realm of night and sleep.
Let me collapse into she that waits,
Pasithea, that will cradle me.
Let me lay within the womb
and bosom of her dark blackened soul.
Damn the clock again, shrill it screams
A mechanical tyrannical device.
The terror of noise and vibration,
the horror of ambulance rides.
Curse striated light creeping
under doors and through drawn curtains.
Desist, I must have rest,
my eyes are full of leaking puss.
Torn open by deep gnawing hunger,
and cruel agony of waking.
The cock, the sentinel of morning,
the prancing gigolo of hoops and combs,
that pays no price or praise to poems
written in the urgent early hours.
Will I beg for one more hour?
Or a half might do, to count winks.
To shuffle under the duvet
and hold back the nods of morning.