Sensory awareness;
fold of translucent light through thin blue sheets.
Faint scent of tobacco smoke -
morning reveals the desolation of yesterday.
Coping mechanisms galore!
Scene of poetry without a purpose,
scene of black holes in red carpet,
scene of high moons by the windowsill
and always feeling low, half-****** on Zopiclone,
how I once slept full, breathed from the diaphragm,
dreamed with ease - but that was so long ago.

Slept-in sheets, weeks of cold sweats
and takeaway pizza eaten in bed.
12 hour days on minimum wage,
I feel like a gardener on his last legs-
a garden to be tended to,
a garden that grows all around me.
The incense tray is full, synthetic Jasmine,
putrid Lemon-grass bought from the Pound Saver
solely to talk to the attractive Hungarian woman
behind the counter.
It's a working day and my mind is in disarray;
the sheets are too heavy, I'm a little hungover
and I've been going insane.

Half-an-hour to be showered, bowels emptied;
eyeballs removed - or whatever it is people do
to get themselves ready for the day.
It's a scene of kicking out in dead-water,
it's a scene of black holes and being human,
it's a scene of fear for the present day,
so much so you cannot build for a future.
Half-an-hour to be showered and out of the door,
half-an-hour to be someone I'm not-
well... I've had to fake it all before.