Insomnium

In the finite universe of my living room,
the sun lies swallowed
in a lightbulb. The glass in my
eyes draws in the atoms
of light; sound is an
alien element – the silence is
splattered on the walls
and is glued to my gums. Though
it is quiet, it is bright and I wish to
sleep. I wish to wake
in a crack of thunder
and drown
the world in a furious
rain. The clock strikes thirteen.
It is time for a dull
pain to slither and crouch inside
this finite universe of
flesh and bone.
The atmosphere is colourless and
clear, the wind of
breath is stifled and hurried.
Eyelash, lungs, spinal cord lie
synchronised but apart. We dream of
condensing into a grain
of salt and evaporating on
a demon’s tongue. Time is
running out on this
sphere; time is up
for the inhabitant of tonight.
The night is seized, dreams are
dead behind the womb
of eyes wide awake.
The sun grows cold and these
walls of silence come
crumbling down.
Daylight streams in
to find this cube empty,
its life form awake and alive somewhere
else, but not here.
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Cigarettes

Ashes at the end of mouths,
begin your journey from fire and
end in powdered nothingness. As I draw
in, again. Fly away, the silk
of smoke, grey air-
choke the skies and fuse with clouds.
Murderous fumes, go where
I cannot see you. Nestle the heart
swim through the throat
and away from sight,
plague the lungs, blackening the roots.
Small white pillars of slow death,
seek the vehicle of fingertips, who
ferry the passengers day and
night. You have won, I have not.
I have only inhaled and thought.
Exhaled and thought.
Circles glow slowly, grow a beard of ash,
snow over and are crushed.
Darkness and cold, rain and drink
enhance your pull. I am seeking you
when the time is right, when it is not.
I am there to destroy and
burn your kind as I burn and destroy
myself. Exhale I must,
release your stinging airs before
they cause too much pain. For a
tiny bit is all I need. Enough to extinguish
the thirst that can only be
quenched by fire.

Plethora

Airy sweetness,
deep inhalations, deeply held
breathing bones are truly alive.
Although the achings return
always, like hungry snakes,
a yawning ball of light
is revolving and grows,
ever bright,
devouring the darkness,
defaced by the snakes,
yet undeterred.
When the storms subside,
it is time to
release the sickening grip
and assign symbols to your
sorrows, gently gazing into the needles
and breathe the air
like you were buried
at sea,
a thousand years ago.