This
is my
bane, my
dear, lover.
Restless night
syndrome, dark
and pitiless sleep
as the blood rushes
through my ears like
cascades, torrents of
floodwater crushing my
eardrums and deafening
me as I try to dream a
little dream to find
some solace and
comfort in an
old world I
used to
know.

Fall
into a
void of
my own
making, I
clamber up
the stairs to
my dreamland
and dance with
your heart among
stars that refuse to
let their shine diminish,
and I will see you in
that void, the dark
and lonely rooms
that sit between
my happiness
and the love
that you
provide.

I am
yours
and you
are mine and
mine alone and
together we will
conquer all that we
see, every speck of land
in every single dream we
dream, universes dancing
together, minds melded
as one, and even they
who cannot be but
jealous may look
on with those
green eyes,
we will be
strong.

But the
alcohol dims
the effect and I
find myself talking
to the walls as if they
really did have ears, but
we all know they are dead
things, dead as you are in my
head. Someday I might find
the talent to create some
creature as beautiful
as you look in my
dreams, but I am
unable to find
appropriate
words to
describe
you.

I take a draw
of my cigarette
and the
way the smoke dances
reminds me of
how you used to dance,
slow and ****,
a striptease of sorts,
sliding that body
out of
the
black dress
like a
snake
shedding her skin.

The glow of
the cigarette end
is beginning
to fade,
and the last ashes
of you fall
broken to
the ground. I
can’t repair you
anymore, I have
neither the tools
nor the patience.
I have to leave you
as I
find you,
and you must leave
me the way
you found me,
looking for you with
another cigarette in my pocket
and no
light.

There’s this fly buzzing
around in my
apartment, divebombing
my head and
generally annoying me.
He swoops and flits
and bounces off
my cheek but
he never flies into
my rolled-up
newspaper.

He seems to be
enjoying himself,
the cheeky little
******
making faces at me.
What do you have
to smile about?
A hundred eyes
and **** on grass
still looks sweet
to you.

What is his purpose?
To annoy everything
else on this
planet?
If so, he’s doing
a **** fine job
of it, better
than anything else
wallowing around
in this hell.
Better than me,
that’s for sure,
shown up by
a ******* fly!

Later on, I find
him dead on the
windowsill, his little
legs sticking up
in the air,
his wings spread out,
ready to fly off
into the afterlife,
heaven-bound, if such
a heaven exists.
I hope not,
I don’t want an afterlife
that I have to
share with
him.

I flick him out
the window
and wonder if there’s
someone up there
with his thumb
and *******
in a circle
ready to give me
the same treatment.

Bring
it
on,
old
man,
bring
it
on.

Every evening offers
me three
choices; get drunk,
watch old westerns,
or get drunk
and watch
old westerns.

I always
choose the
best
of
both worlds.

Eastwood narrating
my world,
Morricone
supplying my
soundtrack
as I travel
from Nowhere A
to Nowhere B
on a palomino
that just
runs
runs
runs
through desert
heat and raging
rapids, imagining
the Indians behind us
and having to duck
their arrows as we
try to reach
the hills and
safety.

All from
the comfort
of
my
sofa.

It’s snowing
outside, but
not
in my
world.
In my world,
there is sunlight
and kisses
and beautiful women
who just so happen
not to be
******* gals
spreading their legs
for a coupla bucks.
These are refined
ladies, champagne
drinkers in cocktail
dresses that hug their
***** and hips.
They wear high heels,
elegant ones,
all black, none
of that garish red.

All from
the comfort
of
my
sofa.

I fall asleep,
drunk,
dreaming of revolving
circles where
parallel universes
collide and mix
together to form
a brand new
state of
consciousness.

It’s hard to let
go when you
forget what
it was you
were holding
on to.
Was it a dream
that captivated
my heart or
was there something
greater at
play?

I’ve forgotten
all the names
of the characters
that have graced
my stage over
the years but
I never forget
how each one
made me feel.

Forgetting is
the
only
journey worth
taking
now.

I’m old,
stuck in my
ways and I
won’t be
making
friends
anymore,
too long in
the tooth
to let new
eyes see the
fire still
burning in my soul.
That is
for me alone,
it might come
out to
play sometimes,
when it’s dark
and no other
fires are visible,
I’ll let out a
little spark and smile
in the way only
someone who has
lost everything can.

I hopped into a
boxcar and ended
up somewhere
in Wisconsin,
mid-winter froze
in the air
and my breath
crystallized into
dead angels
that hung like
gargoyle icicles
hanging from the
gutters of cathedrals
of fog.

I found a bar
with bikes outside,
the lights inside
too dim to lighten
the sidewalk.
There was swearing
and the sounds
of poker chips
sliding on wooden tables
full of scratches
and gouges and
knife marks.

It was ***** inside,
dust clung to every
available surface
and none of the clientele
had had a shower
in weeks.
I ordered a whisky
and found myself
a dark corner
to watch the locals.
I was as happy
as a spider
in a cauldron of
dead flies.

There is something
magical about places
like this,
seeing the real
side of humanity,
the dirt and the
grime, the fights
and the blood
and the camaraderie
of like-minded souls
not fit for
public consumption.
These places were
perfect and I never
wanted to leave
any of them,
but tabs build up,
money runs dry,
glasses get smashed
and I get my
*** handed to me
by some ****
barmaid wearing
leathers and chains.

I think I’ll be good
tonight, a long
journey just behind
me and I need
a few drinks
to forget who
I am and where
I live in the universe.
Give myself the
company of a
different mind
for a while.

I think I’ll like it
here, in the snow
and the warming
whisky
that flows through
my veins like
hell’s blood.