"One is at last killed by what one loves violently."
--Guy De Maupassant

During the nights when I cannot seek the sanctity of
sleep,for it does not come over me until the
deadly light of daybreak;
I listen to the still, small voice
calling out from the cracked, crumbling and
falling
plaster firmament hanging over me--
a proverbial coffin-lid
threatening
to close in over me, nailed tightly
shut
with antique copper spikes
to keep
the good dreams
     out.

I am so often told in tones
echoing sad and
silent
in the O Holy Night,
to write
the elegy of insanity
creeping
     up
from my feet
beneath
these ***** blankets,
seeping,
working its way to my throat
where lies my stifled
cries
that engulf the labored breathing
as my tender, simple
heart
threatens to explode.

Tossing a pillow against the
peeling,
painted wall, I utter
a course *"*******"
to the weathered, unwashed window
by my head
that pounds;
needing the soothing
song-sounds of
whiskey, scotch or
lukewarm beer to revive
my
   sinking,
burning soul as
     i lay me down
     to die,
     i pray to nothing
     and embrace the lies

O, the lies...

I can scarce recall
a time of peace and
bliss,
laying lonely in your arms,
with regret I had to
kiss
your sour lips
perfumed bitter with stale smoke,
***** and other such things like
this...

...this nowhere outside goiing,
going
     gone:
The Wheel of Misfortune,
the agony of armies in
retreat,
the ****** of the mind,
the birth
of Jesus, Muhammad, Krishna
and the plastic
Elvis Presley poking up
off your dusty dull-blue dashboard
like the other man's
***** you left
for mine.

Yes,
on these and every sleepless
forever nights
     I know,
I show that
O, still, small voice
the things
we refuse to see,
and maybe after it's all over
it
will sing myself to sleep.