"sleepwalk" poems
The dictatorship of our state is profound in its mass propaganda, where the discernment of individuals seeps into an eternal chasm of self-sacrifice on the altar of political conformity.
Let us actively withstand the passivity of our conventional hypocrisy as we engage with this ontological sleepwalk through sinister passageways of presumed social advancement.
In our age of grandiose moralistic eclecticism where imperatives abound, I burn incense and contemplate the cosmopolitan artificiality which lavishes abundant gifts upon our self-opinion.
Criminality is the result of discovery.
So, oh thorn in my flesh, cover those rancid corpses by the veil of popularity, gain and pleasure.
Subconscious social conditioning is the scourge of lustful appearance, don’t you think?
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 10:23 PM UTC
Heavy weighs the death
Of childlike ideals
Their hollow corpses rotted
With severed wrists
The media says “tell no one”
Sleepwalk through reality
I cannot want
I cannot lust
For faces
In a world of masks
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 4:47 PM UTC
I would like this life of endless
Greyhound time schedules to cease.
What self-inflicted alien abduction
tore me from the valley of my birth,
leaving me to wander empty streets,
each the branch of a coppiced maze?
I grow weary of quotidian fastfood buffets
downed with the aid of espresso baristas.
My legs have lost the muscle-memory
that strode the river cliffs with no regard.
Time to end the sleepwalk of forty years;
rejoin the forward guard of Iroquois.
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 10:47 AM UTC
Patience is a virtue
well, I'm not a virtuous girl
The seconds drag like hours
till you're back in my world
Sleepwalk my day through mundane things,
socks and locks and chicken wings
Want to set a plan in action
you're such a beautiful distraction
My mind races to future dreams
in my brain a movie streams
future times, undone crimes
unspoken signs and movie lines
Want to make the clock tick faster
not afraid of this disaster
Want to set a plan in action
you're such a beautiful distraction
An hour passes, then two more
my heart imagines whats in store
One day gone and then another
wonder if you'll like my mother?
My feet never touch the ground
I'm screaming but I make no sound
Want to set a plan in action
you're such a beautiful distraction
Heart open to all possibilities
only held back my abilities
to please you, tease you
hold you, squeeze you
Hoping you'll return the favor
time with you is what I savor
thrill me, fill me
tempt me, **** me
Want to set this plan in action
Oh, you're such a beautiful distraction
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 7:40 PM UTC
*Every day at noon,
I sleepwalk to you,
Who stands there in the middle
Of the Grande Galerie
Denon Wing, upper floor,
Inaccessible in your polished copper,
Walking into eternity,
Your bow ready for use,
Your arrows
Piercing my heart,
Again ang again.*
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 2:46 AM UTC
I come from a place
Where reality's a dream
We sleepwalk awake
Silent are the screams
Uncertainty is certain
Lies are absolute
Destruction just creates
The vital and minute
Consciously unaware
Of our intended mistakes
Reminded to forget
That giving only takes
I come from a place
Where eyes never see
Through the mists of illusion
Surrounding you and me
Dec 26, 2016
Dec 26, 2016 at 8:55 PM UTC
I awake to the midnight morning
of sleepwalking
the thumping of my soul deep in the
morning twilight
children slumber under their
dark covers as I emerge
from dreams of hope and despair
under my bittersweet tongue
their slumber
and mine
expectant and hopeful
anxiety ridden in our own way
blessed am I to unfold
during the AM hours
of morning radio
cold floors and
oil black
coffee of the watchman’s variety
alive to hear my strange thoughts
and my children safe but for a moment
as I sleepwalk
in darkness
Jun 14, 2010
Jun 14, 2010 at 6:17 AM UTC
you rise before the morning does, watch the black
sky go gray through the shower curtain
lacy shadows cast on summer-night skin
not ready to awaken, blue eyes half-mast to
squint away the fluorescent intrusion as your
mother butters toast for you that you leave behind,
your stomach sleeping too.
yawning, you thank god that the possums are
exercising better judgment as you hold
the wheel at eight and four, shake your knees
at every stoplight, sing billy joel top-volume
to stay alert while the clouds go pink and gold.
you join the real-world almost right away,
asleep before you hit the tracks at westport
tickets tickets tickets grabs your ear, but only just.
your coffee cools in its thermos, forgotten in the
new haven line haze, your nerves all perked up
fighting with the fog between your ears. your nerves
all perked up. your nerves all perked up. you try to
kick the fog to no avail. you all but sleepwalk
down the platform, you barely watch the gap.
hey, wouldn’t it be crazy if he came your dream-voice
whispers to your conscious yes it would be crazy your
conscious chuckles at the thought.
you trip on the overweight businessman’s pennyloafer
and you think how much you need to *** and you toss
your cold bagel in the all aboard trash can and you
think about how crazy you would be to hope to see him
and you hope your backpack isn’t slowing traffic too
much and your nerves all perked up your nerves all
perked up and you shake away the fog one last time and
you get to the end of the long hot platform and you—
hey wouldn’t it be crazy if but yes he’s
there and yes you
don’t know
what to
say but
yes your
eyes wide yes
mouth open
yes you don’t
know what
to say but
*hi,
I love you,
yes*
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 9:41 PM UTC
As it is in the flesh and bones
of every man and woman
and child
and the name and blood
of every god
as it is within every heart beat
of every dream
the sting and weight
and beauty of life
is the essence that makes
all things mortal
nothing is eternal
as even forevers
have their end
and as we breath
and die
and dream
from one existence
into another
we lose and find ourselves
in and out of time
and as we sleepwalk through
the skull of death
and the womb of life
we catch a glimpse of that
which lives within
and outside of all
that which defies time and decay
and in an unending song
and single thread
we see everything
is connected
by love
Dec 15, 2017
Dec 15, 2017 at 1:11 AM UTC
After the day's work, the canopy of stars
sheltering our heads, tell me a story
as you sit down to do your washing;
The night has now fallen silent, now
tell me Senora, stories, of bygone times,
of heroes and kings, of sagas of valour
and of the denizens of the forests,
wolves and lions, and of ancient wells.
I wonder in awe, when you lift the stone
pestle down. Here's mine a heroine own.
It is cold, and the fires warm our souls,
woolen caps too, and the flickering lamps.
Now put me to sleep by your side, on
the charpoy: I hear the wind sleepwalk,
jingling her silver anklets in the thin air,
when I wake up in the dead, as crickets
rustle, and shadows talk, to count my
blessings that you are still by my side.
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 3:43 PM UTC
I've noticed just how much of our talking waits
until bedtime - as if until then
we have lacked permission to pause
until we've undressed and bundled ourselves
into our duvet time-capsules.
Alas, it’s then
when the competing urgency of sleep rises
and meets our log-jammed thoughts
it’s then when our fight fades,
when our wide meander sprawls,
exhausted of its pungency
And its then
when our ability to cement thoughts
cracks in the face of creeping sleep
rerunning its classic dreams
and rebuilding forgotten worlds
that we’re fated to later abandon in the shudder of dawn,
and the demands of a new day.
And so, we delay any conscious introspection
and leave our contemplations to our advancing Sandman
as we slumber and sleepwalk in his wake.
Aug 19, 2022
Aug 19, 2022 at 6:03 PM UTC
I was so tired that I fell asleep with my jacket and jeans on
Fever spiked, woke up at 3 AM sharp
Drenched in a cold sweat and clammy to the touch
A night terror that returned me to childhood with its hallucinations
Starts with the distortion of size through warped dimensions
The knowledge required to become a skilled piano player
So vast that it expands and fills the room around me
I am crushed and suffocated, claustrophobic in the company of giants
My thoughts erupt
Someone saying something somewhere
Shaking, sweating
Even silence shouts at me I can’t control anything
I watch myself as I move in fast-forward, possessed
Voices in my head blast lunatic symphonies
Even the air around me swells to dangerous proportions
Can’t sit still, dying, I am alone and become a spirit
The physical realm long ago abandoned me on a stranger’s doorstep
Condemned to be a psychotic loner in a post-apocalyptic world
Dead and decayed from nuclear holocaust and I as its final freak
Beg for an end to the raving, burning, ringing and crushing forces
A phone call is made to my love and reality anchor
I stutter through my symptoms, regain some control
With her advice I find some calm and sleepwalk downstairs for water
The vending machine is deceased for the night
No favors
Just my luck
Jan 25, 2011
Jan 25, 2011 at 9:33 AM UTC
Clamber from bed sheets,
tangled. Catch her
tight. Hold her
safe. Curl up with her
in the soft grey light
of almost-day.
Oct 19, 2011
Oct 19, 2011 at 3:03 PM UTC
But tonight I decide to take the back way
with my single bag of groceries buckled in
for dear life with a white receipt fluttering
from between the battlement of butter and bread.
Tonight, the evening will swallow the sun like a pill
without water, as the late night trains sleepwalk through
the city humming, pondering the unanswered question—
ummmmmmmm, umm, umm, umm, ummmmmmmm—
and the mixture of cloud, locomotion, and sky
will remind me of the cannons and the rifles
and the smoke that bounced back and forth, and I couldn’t
have been more sure that someone was going to die out there
on San Jacinto Day
And eventually I will turn within this forest of street—
Hickory, Elm, Oak, Maple, Spruce, Pecan, Cedar—
to see the red capitals of my reflection, crucified
upon a metal grid for every fatigued citizen to see:
MORRISON'S
CORN KITS
with a light on top that pulses and breathes.
And all I can do is picture myself inside, working along
the assembly lines ******** slip-resistant shoes
onto the ankles of Mexican pubescents,
or painting old men’s faces with sweat,
or filling the bags under teachers’ eyes,
or doodling veins on the legs of ladies who
stand standing to stand, and stand all day, they stand.
And I’ll remember how my crying sister screamed
at every loud thing she heard, and how my
mom was like a parrot on her shoulder saying
‘It’s not real, honey. Honey, it’s not real.’
And I’ll watch how the smoke that endlessly vomits
from the stacks wearing the sky like a wig
distorts the fanned out walls like fun-house mirrors,
and dissipates into the night like a long, drawn out, exhale.
Aug 6, 2011
Aug 6, 2011 at 8:12 PM UTC
Moon hour
Waking up,
the streets are with so empty
it's hard to believe night
could hold the moon so delicately
in its hand, detached,
like a mirror.
The mirror while we sleep
gathers the mountains up
and waters the thirsty dreams
of thistles
blowing in the moon breeze
the moon aloft
yolked to night forever,
neither dejected nor happy
it wanders its light through
its milk on the ground.
Sleepwalk
Your mother in a sleepwalk began searching in the leftovers
of what lay in her mind for the three things she had misplaced.
A ring of keys or a wooden bowl, an appointment not written down,
a door not closed.
There she is descending the stairs, opening drawers and pulling
back curtains until her father wakes her, asking
"What is it your looking for?" And leads her back to her room,
where the future resumes and she is telling this story to a child.
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 11:07 PM UTC
Somewhere between my subconscious and hypnotized reality
I sleepwalk down the memory lanes
Amidst the darkness of a lost cause
I move in circles searching for something I can't remember
Is it the perfection personified or just my memories of you
A soul so pure and a heart so warm
A beauty so rare and eyes so expressive
A touch so caressing and voice so soothing
A fragrance so sedating and a presense so completing
And in the shimmering lights of your glow
I move my tremoring hands just for a touch
For a belief I would trade my chance to be with thousand angels
That you are real
But it was just a shadow I was touching
You vanish like the ripples in the mirage of uncertainty
And I keep following you in circles till eternity
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 8:58 PM UTC
the palace of the moment having sold out
of her usual tear soaked apparel
and her casual wear fascination needing a
quick fix lead her across the wastelands the shopping plaza
to this wind-soaked backlot and its hidden wonderland
the store has no sing
just a off green door with the words
only the accursed may leave
she shimmies through the door
he makes his way up endless sidewalk
doing a little dance step every few feet
because he knows that is what a madman
would do in his place
his rags are the best he could muster
but they will serve
to be mad is fashionable
and appearance and substance is everything
he mutter to himself
he walks the rainswept backlot and its blatant ****** factory
and finds a green door with the words
****** your own pretences
he slips inside to gaze with open awe
she keeps her politics in her pocket
the latest soapbox to preach the ******** line from
politics fashionista who dabble in whatever
the latest trend on facebook seems to lend
new age drivel or some bomb throwing **** with
a distrust of anything that might be another point of view
got a real open mind
long as it something she wants to hear
shes occupying the breeze block in the backlot
sitting by a green door with the words
believe in nothing and that's all you'll have
she whimpers at the thought
but she trots in to take a look
he washes the blood off his hands
but it never washes away
don't judge me you aint
seen enough
been enough
known enough
to judge much of anything
sleepwalk through your days
with your diapers and handbills
inviting to the great change that'll never come
its all just a fashion statement
social tyrants protesting political tyrants
go find your green door
find out if its a lion or lamb
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 2:20 AM UTC
Camping; facing the wind.
Feeling all too safe; sleepwalking
(now and then)
There's something to be said about a foundation.
(a strong one)
and there's something to be said about a dedication
to a flimsy one.
A road trip or an expedition?
A day dream or a premonition?
Take baby steps (toward big steps)
Take what you want (need) from this and (life) everything.
Smirk and scoff when you're smirked (and/or) scoffed.
Biting your tongue (off) now;
not sleeping at all somehow.
Coffee brain like a crack ******* flame.
(do not condone)
Unwind your sanity to keep hunkered down
in what is real and more full-heartedly genuine
than any other known human experience.
(live)
(die)
(get read about)
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 2:11 PM UTC
the dirt’s turned up, the body’s gone
and the makeshift cross is snapped in two
maybe you should’ve dug the hole a bit deeper
maybe you should’ve made it work
now everything is plastic-wrapped and vacuum-sealed
and all you can smell is germ-x and cheap soap
but it’s better than her perfume
you burned her clothes and lingerie in your backyard
along with her favorite books you didn’t read
— she never asked for anything to be returned
you forgot about her for a while
the words of her eulogy gave you closure
“it’s over”
entwined with clichés and ********
that fertilized your daffodils —
the flowers of new beginnings
but then you saw her corpse
reanimated with Another on her arm
and the laughter that plays in your head
when you can’t sleep at night
spilled from her undead lips
her memory flooded your mind
and gnawed your brain
as you returned to her upturned grave
delirious in a sleepwalk daze
plucking petals from a daffodil
Jun 19, 2012
Jun 19, 2012 at 6:38 AM UTC
We’re motes of dust and stars that sparkle,
We’re cherry trees and busy bees,
We’re rays of light when it gets darker,
We blossom, finely, in the freeze.
We shimmer, warmly, in the void,
Defying odds and making friends.
We build when others are destroying,
We guide you past unlit dead-ends.
We’re rivers winding through the deserts,
We’re oceans, gentlest at the shore.
We are the snow, we are the claret…
When earth is parched, we let it pour.
We are the night, we are the morning,
We are the ticking of the clock.
We are the comfort in the times of mourning,
We are the feathers mild when you sleepwalk.
We are the sky, we are the thunder,
We are the sun, we are the rain.
We put the rapture in the wonder,
We put the slow in the fast lane.
We are the truth, we are the spirit,
We are the numbers and the runes.
…So take your life and boldly live it
While humming all those merry tunes.
Nov 23, 2017
Nov 23, 2017 at 1:21 PM UTC
Scuse' me sweet women,
Did you know you put me on the world's shoulders?
Or did you sleepwalk into the situation like me too?
Either way, it's alright we're up here now
And isn't it a lovely view?
Oh and to think about going back down to earth now
.... I couldn't, could you?
It's funny...
I was wading in the water
Not going far at all
Just cruising, as you do...
Until I swan up and out,
And I breathed the air
And I tell ya, I did shout, I did
But I said "Oh hello, um how do you do?"
Zoooooooom!
Next thing, we're traveling half way to the moon!
And it is at this place that I sing to you,
Oh Angel, Oh Dharma!
Is this mortal living or what they call Nirvana?
Alas, it makes no difference to me what is the answer
All that does, I tell you
Angel, Lover, Newfound Owner of my heart whole!
Keep wearing your silver armour,
But remember,
With me by your side,
No sinister soul,
Or a man that means foul,
Could push past my passion to harm ya!
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 3:07 PM UTC
I walk the path alone. Though I am never without company. For the wind and trees sing lullabies; lulling me into a sleepwalk-stupor.
The rain caresses my face like a kind lover. Making everything seem...
But the way is dark and I regret to realise that I cannot see beyond the skeletal frames of those dark boughs. Oh how they whistle mercies unto me, my sweetly singing entourage of thornéd ghouls.
Come, oh stifling Death. You whose omnipresence disturbs my skin and forces it to crawl deeper into the shadows.
Leave me, oh pain. You who I alone have elected my captor. Do not bind me with your mordant roots. Roots nourishing my doubt and uncertainty, indeed utter disbelief in that supposed truth - salvation.
"God save me, guide my steps." I cry aloud this pathetic plea, and then wind answers me; that immaterial half, so quiet - whispers:
"There is no God where you are".
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 12:09 PM UTC
“But maybe your real job is shopping…”
Sleepwalk through stock footage. Life as
documentary. Soundtrack of horror movie score:
ambient electronica, bubblegum nostalgia and
**** love songs. Everything becomes
visual metaphor: blackbirds, barcodes and
birthday candles; Big Pharma pick & mix;
lipstick ritual; pigeon superstition; fraying flags
of fading empires; migratory patterns of
shopping trolleys; special offers; fantastic prizes.
Worker bees are vanishing - they all want to
be queens - and our hives overflow
with honey, but are empty and dead. We got
infected with aspiration, with individualism.
Generically unique career consumers: remember
when you were more than your credit rating,
more than your demographic, more than your
market-driven self-diagnosis?
Dec 8, 2018
Dec 8, 2018 at 5:44 PM UTC