Tuesday 4 January 2011

Insomnia

The darkroom sleeps, eyelids pulled closed,
carbonating air surrogating oxygen
so that the darkroom suffuses some head
– and now it’s a lightroom –
                        *
swish of tanned sand in sea,
beneath kicking feet, the sea dry
and the sun, adjacent to the sickle; cold
– the moon; dreamless.

Swizzle-stick finger in a face
like the sea, blue now green now brown;
eyes that are mouths that are lips
that are gone, ghostly hair that smells

like scattered pine needles around a base,
on a beach? No, in a still forest now,
with a gun, pink light-shaft shapes running
away from the V, tree-limbs falling,

tangling, knocking away the melting gun
in this con-temporaryscape, more trees
falling in some Neanderthal roar,
until a formulated roof blocks all oxygen
                        *
– and now it’s a heaving darkroom –
a hollow cell within something substantial,
the head tired of one pillow,
in some Niagaric mist of air and water.

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