"zopiclone" poems
Zopiclone is a marvellous
Drug
Take one then get down
Snug
Wake refreshed for another
Day
Keep the gremlins far
Away
The doctor says “You’ll get no
More”
His message now is in
Folklore
Keith Wilson August 2016
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 10:36 AM UTC
i don’t know why i’m here
it all happened so fast, i was in a daze
or perhaps a trance
my legs just kept propelling me in this direction despite
my common sense
though i’m not sure if i even have that
left
i’m sorry i stained your pillow case with mascara
i’m sorry i noticed the bottle of zopiclone sitting on your bedside
i’m sorry i wrecked your perfectly made bed
i’m sorry i’m so needy and stubborn
my legs led me here, i had no choice
i didn’t want this, i really didn’t
it’s just that sometimes i can feel my heart beating
in your chest, which would explain this unrelenting ache because
my body just can’t seem to part with it.
i’m sorry i came here expecting something from you
but i will re-make your bed,
remove the mascara from your pillow,
and set the alarm when i leave,
leaving no trace of my self
behind, aside
from the invisible fingerprints on your piano keys.
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 11:21 PM UTC
The skin at the bed of her nails shone, tight.
Forever healing, windows that rattle
With the changing of her moods.
Love was a locket, an heirloom
That insisted its presence
Upon her bedside table.
She could turn out every light
And it would still be there.
Steady metronome,
Lifeless thud,
Invasive thought.
The carpet gathered artefacts from late night walks.
Bad habits clung to the walls.
No pillow talk, only muffled strings,
Failed symphonies,
Conversations three years old:
Memories that play Chinese whispers
Across the faces in the ceiling.
Irregularity of breath,
Sleep comes, clothed in Zopiclone;
A mind that never rests.
Narcosis in the morning,
Nausea over dried toast,
Sweet flamenco on the radio,
But there is nothing to calm her bones.
The red wine cast last night’s shadow,
Hollow in the eyes, first hit of daylight,
First hit of nicotine
To prove she is still alive.
Anxiety: the ball and chain,
Always dragging her behind.
Living as a ghost,
The people at the bus-stop stare,
The traffic, the signs, the passers-by,
The doldrums in the headlines,
The rain upon her window;
The heart attack and vine.
Prescription pills in the afternoon
To get her through the day,
Until she can get her fix,
Have her fill,
And finally hide away.
The high-street parade comes alive after dark,
Lanterns on the lake, the fish-bowl
Of a small town, familiar tongues that roll;
Memorised anecdotes across the ashtray,
The lipstick on her teeth.
Clumsy in victory, each stumble confined
To look as if she has walked through life
Without ever missing a stride.
There is nowhere to breathe
But in the solitude of her insanity.
She paints the walls
To the colours of her moods:
Grey in the long, long winter,
Blue in the onset of June.
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 7:02 PM UTC
I have found a place to stay tonight
beyond the quartet of violence, cancer, debt,
and ***** field. Beyond translucent light,
crushed snail shell, and entertainment.
I'll die a thousand deaths in dares tonight,
popping dreams like candy in my mouth.
See the light before your hear the crackle;
a vinyl sky of firework sound.
The Zopiclone will send me off to sleep.
Come tidal wave, come vague inspiration,
come the bringer of tomorrow's Cash Cow Queen,
the next ghost-written, Cigar Smoking King.
I have no time to narrate upon existence.
I am only here to learn how it is to die.
There is a taste of dementia in tepid tea leaves,
load me with sugar, only far away from here.
The poet will run off with the pen-pal.
The egg will hatch inside the slaughterhouse.
And I have forgotten how it is
to ****
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 6:53 AM UTC
Sensory awareness;
fold of translucent light through thin blue sheets.
Faint scent of tobacco smoke -
morning reveals the desolation of yesterday.
Coping mechanisms galore!
Scene of poetry without a purpose,
scene of black holes in red carpet,
scene of high moons by the windowsill
and always feeling low, half-stoned on Zopiclone,
how I once slept full, breathed from the diaphragm,
dreamed with ease - but that was so long ago.
Slept-in sheets, weeks of cold sweats
and takeaway pizza eaten in bed.
12 hour days on minimum wage,
I feel like a gardener on his last legs-
a garden to be tended to,
a garden that grows all around me.
The incense tray is full, synthetic Jasmine,
putrid Lemon-grass bought from the Pound Saver
solely to talk to the attractive Hungarian woman
behind the counter.
It's a working day and my mind is in disarray;
the sheets are too heavy, I'm a little hungover
and I've been going insane.
Half-an-hour to be showered, bowels emptied;
eyeballs removed - or whatever it is people do
to get themselves ready for the day.
It's a scene of kicking out in dead-water,
it's a scene of black holes and being human,
it's a scene of fear for the present day,
so much so you cannot build for a future.
Half-an-hour to be showered and out of the door,
half-an-hour to be someone I'm not-
well... I've had to fake it all before.
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 5:15 PM UTC
Take these, they say;
They will help, they say.
How ‘bout some venlafaxine?
That will stop you wanting to die.
Bit anxious?
Some lorazepam will fix that!
Oh, how’s your sleeping?
Temazepam, zopiclone!
That’ll do the trick.
Your mood is unstable?
We have something to cure that!
We’ll add on some lithium and quetiapine,
How does that sound?
You’ll be all better in no time.
You take the pills,
Two in the morning (with a large glass of water)
During the day (as needed)
Three more in the evening (after food)
And three at night (an hour before bed)
Am I all better yet?
Well, I guess I don’t feel anxious..
And my mood isn’t all over the place…
In fact; I don’t have a mood at all.
Nothing.
Zombiefied.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 7:29 AM UTC
I fell in love with music
when I fell in love with women.
Cassettes will weep upon demand;
homing melodies for the neighbour
who lives across the green.
There's no sense to *** or violence,
and yet I'll teethe it all the same.
I'll give out tepid love, flashes of blood,
and a weekend of cemetery wander,
if it means I'll get a modicum of sleep.
Zopiclone, Citalopram, and long walks
will do a lot to elevate a mind.
You see a painted blue
and an ocean view; yet you've lost
that old dignitary smile.
I am told to separate my wisdom,
to quote history as if time were a fact.
There's no love in the decimated forest,
the Earth now calloused and fickle,
to shake off the parasite of man.
I fell in love with cigarettes
when I divorced with yesterday's papers.
I have no wars left to fight,
and no money more to make,
now all that's left to ask is:
where do I belong?
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 10:21 PM UTC