Sandman,
King of my dreams
Is to me
everything
conjoined we are
at the heart
hugging tight
to never part.
Whispered words
spoken true
renew in me
the lust of you.

symptoms of anhedonia.
                   a triumvirate, perceived
                   Inanition& Inertia& Inaptitude:
                                      they are ugly triplets who hide under leather
                                      and self-loathing &stink of last night’s pinot
                                      noir
                     ­                        from **** knows where.
                   their fingers, cigarette-stained and calloused,
                   reach into my prozac pillboxes
                   &crunch my anxiety (meds)
                   into fluoxetine powder and ivory between
                   their yellowing teeth.

I Do Not Cry When The
Sandman Knocks                                      
For He Sits At                                      midnight:the witching hour,whenthe
My Porch Bearing Sweet                                      siblings curl up besides me to
Dreams &Sister Death, Whose Touch                   ,                   ravage;
I’ve Long Wished For                                                         they will not
                                                                ­                       leave me
                                                              ­             untilthe
                                                         cloyingly sweet
                                         perfume of Death
       is scrubbed clean fromthe

                                                        ­                    pulse
                                                                ­            point
                                                                ­            of
                                                                ­            my
                                                                ­            wrists


There is nothing There is nothing There is nothing There is nothing There is nothing for you here.

Nothing will bring me back. In three years time I’ll still be dead. My bed sheet is my shroud and Death holds my wrists in a vice grip. He still leads me below.

                                      here is the untruth:
                                                        ­ i am here,
                                                         Penelope at her loom,
                                                         waiting for a lost lover whom I know
                                                         will take ten years to come back to
                                                         my awaiting arms.

                                      here is the untruth:
                                                        ­ in three years time,
                                                         I’ll still be dead.

                                      here is the truth:
                                                         nothing exists six feet under except:
                                                         hell
                                                         chalk dust
                                                         powdered calcium.

Prometheus stole fire from the gods
and gave it to us: clumsy humanity,
fumbling fools trapped in our own darkness.

for his crimes against Olympus, Zeus
had the titan bound to a rock, cursed
to suffer daily anguish.

•••

the celosia plant burnt bright orange
in the porcelain fist on my windowsill, fragile and stalwart
all at once: a brilliant symbol of our resistance.

now its leaves fade to a dull pallor, sick
from a lack of oxygen, wilting in absence
of the sun's warmth, starved for photosynthesis.

•••

i used to watch Bob Ross to fall asleep.
but now every stroke of his paintbrush
reminds me of your magenta aura—

an enigmatic glow that permeates your presence.
now i read The Sandman: Omnibus to stave off insomnia,
wondering when and where i first ****** up.

Death and i converse in the midst
of 3:00am's darkness: the witching hour,
when the veil between this world
and the Abyss grows thinnest.

the Endless approach, swift as quicksand
in an hourglass, silent as a shade
on a moonless eve. they whisper
in tongues mortals cannot speak.

Insomnia's embrace is cold as hoarfrost,
a lost soul looking over my shoulder.
Time wonders, "when you lie alone,
do you hope you don't wake up?"

Morpheus leaps
from the pages of the Sandman,
a phantom from my nightmares,
cloaked in flame and shadow.

"rest easy, friend,"
the King of Dreams
says to me.
"there would be no hell without Hope."

(on candystriped legs)* -the Sandman comes,
catch you while you're sleeping,bring you dreams of redrum
hum softly in your ear-fear, tears - sleep apnia,
lucidly,produce a vista that lingers long after ya,
wake,but wait which is the dream realm?
Once I get you on my list in time you're surely overwhelmed

By a state of Schizophrenia,daydream mania,
add a victim to the list of convoluted insomnia,
(searching out fear in the gathering gloom)
a potent presence appears to bring the prescience of doom

**The room shivers like Inception,but you've still no conception,
of the depth of the Abyss that blows softly with deceptions,
no exception to preception of the photo-reception,
mis - perception,misdirection,just a section of my weapons,
(be still,be calm,be quiet now,my precious toy),
The Sandman's here to rock you with a lullabye

I can only give dreams to others
and build them up as they sleep,
but soon it will all fade
by mornings call to wake.