These nights have a beautiful tune about them,
Soft, chaotic, random... sometimes even with an abandoned note.
Disturbed...
Off keys are important, someone tells me now;
They break away from the pattern,
Which is a good thing, apparently.
Like the dead flower on my otherwise organised headboard,
Empty, disintegrated;
Or the worm lizard on my white plastered walls,
Cold blooded, throbbing and to be honest, quite ******.
Like the bristles I have under my feet,
That don't really show, but hurt as I walk...
I cherish them all secretly.
They kind of make me feel better, elemental.
In touch with reality...
What's wrong in a little more death and decay than is 'usual'!
I know you must be disgusted when the fecund dog litters in your garage.
And you wince at the sight of naked, destitute street children,
As they knock at your rolled up cold window.
They break your pattern of the usual goodness...
You know, the taste of your Turkish coffee,
The love song in your Burkin purse!
They seem like a madness,
And you want to take a shower.
Fist clenched, listening to the water wash the floor,
Its symphony making you quieter.
And sleep comes finally to me;
As I wonder who I will be tomorrow
Sometimes I just cannot sleep and all the images that are supposed to come in my dreams, in all their incongruity or realness, visit me in the dead of night. How can I stay ignorant, without ranting about them?
