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Joel M Frye Jan 2016
sacred silence hangs on angel wings
blessing, watching over wakened night
fluttering on the screen, drawn to the light of
consciousness, the truth of darkened mornings.
strong, alone, remotely flipping through the
channels of the restless bar-room soul
charles bukowski, angry, drunk and droll;
pavement wisdom yanked inside, renewed and
resurrected.  rolling stone lays open,
having sprung the latent-night messiahs
preaching to insomniacal choir.
cryptic muse's recipe for coping:
be consumed, entombed, re-wombed by
worshiping and feeding written fire.
Manan Chandra Dec 2009
Life happens to us unexpectedly, and a mystery it remains right till the end.
Abound in paradoxes and vicissitudes, where unpredictability is the only trend.

In a party to your friends did not say a word, alone in your room you soliloquized.
A hit comedy could elicit not one smile, that old joke every time has you humorized.

Your lover's perfume intoxicates deeply, a gallon of liquor keeps you arid sober.
A melancholy minute can last for a year, a blissful decade in a second gets over.

The ones you take for granted are those who love you, who you deify take you for a fool.
Can keep calm after a thousand insults, one word is enough to make you lose your cool.

A maestro's melodies are lost on you, a little child's laughter immensely does inspire.
Tell a hundred lies and don't even blink, speaking just one truth makes you perspire.

Insomniacal on the best mattress, on the soil in the park you snore and sleep.
Laugh at your own darkest woes, your best friend's troubles always make you weep.

Stare wide eyed at the high noon sun, can't look in your own eyes when you did wrong.
**** a hundred foes and still feel weak, take a beating for your cause to feel strong.

Months of hard labor to become a genius, a moment of error and you are the worst ******.
Succeeding with just a mote of effort, you fail miserably when you work the most hard.

Everything is possible and anything can happen, clairvoyancy is just a waste of time.
Never ever give up what you love, with you as a victim there is no greater crime.
A W Bullen Jul 2020
It has to be
a lack of sleep..

Insomniacal thought-police,
could only dream this up


Delivered from
a rolled-up note,
that bug-eyed trope
of one-skin buzz,
runs ugly through
the neighborhood.
Some duggery of skull-top
lynching underground
resistance, thinking
every shot, a tracer
bearing names.

They are
out there, now
in no-man's-land,
that orange hell
of pictograms
and all of them
insane.
revised.

— The End —