Dark.
Quiet, quite.
The fan blows cool air on my skin.
Cats yowl nearby, the shuffling of cat litter
Makes sounds like oceans waves,
or so thought Mr Crick.

This is the witching hour.
310 and the mind starts to wonder,
Screens flicker, thoughts bicker.
314 and other transcendental numbers,
Infinites and clocks and super-tasks.
315 and the demons rise from the red room
Existing only in minds and movies.

Surely this is nearing the time that
I last rose from slumber
All those nights ago and begged for forgiveness
Metres from sleeping bodies?
Did I see it then?
Do I trust them?

I wonder still.
The chromosome lights
Flash like neon signs
Briefly spelling out notes
With no context or chronology.
Cats, Pi, oceans, light, ***, but only in passing.
Every seven seconds is surely impossible.
Pink elephants she told me not to think about.

So random. No context.
Nonsense without meter or rhyme.
Is it the point? Maybe.
It doesn't to anybody except me.
And when I die I will take all meaning
And leave none
For you will have to make your own
Like everybody else.
Like I did.

Are we alone?

10pm seduces me
like a siren luring
promising me peace and quiet
but she lies
my thoughts are amplified in the silence
and there's no distraction from the numbed pain
I lay here rubbing my eyes
and throbbing temples
contemplating why I don't just sleep
but she whispers and summons
all the monsters
under my bed

Illuminated by the moon.
Her whispers come to me.
I show her that I listen,
I'll prove her that I see.
In a white summer dress,
barefoot by the creek,
with my loose long hair
and my soft pink cheeks.
Almost midnight time,
stones, herbs and tree barks,
kneeling on the grass,
going over ancient marks.
My silver hoops sparkle
and I begin to recite
a beesech to a force
unnoticeable to the sight.
Developed energies.
Astral effect;
my state of mind goes higher
so my wish I can project.
I feel its presence;
It thickens the air.
The wind blows stronger.
I can feel its piercing stare.
I command you my will
and I order you to bow
as I start to float inside the circle
baring my tar black soul.
The moon is still there,
up there in the dark sky.
It giggles and whispers:
*You belong to the night.

Echoes of crickets
Motors rumble and growl
The night's symphony

It’s one of those
nights, right -
The remnants of rain
bouncing off the train
door
More
water on the seats
neatly left alone,
no glances thrown.

Tired women catching up
on each other's days
and work,
giving in to sleep
one by one,
until I’m the only one
up,
gasping
at the deafening wind.

It’s a new world
when the train stops
and the wind drops.
So my feet take me
home.

It’s one of those nights
Every night.