Seventynine hours and then some

Total malfunction. Overalert nights and then: my brain’s wake-up call (…)

Sleepless heart in a sleepless city.
Pumping people through tunnels in sleepless cars.
It’s never dark.
Wandering feet lead me down
sleepless streets, corners are lit and the people I meet are just as —
sleepless, forever-days greeting me on billboards and
windows, mocking
tired eyes under neon lights.
Skin, bathed; the acid aftertaste of dying, granting eyes a heavy burden to carry beneath their delicate curve.
Never able to spill
their crystal guts onto cheekbone-canvases — we never paint the Manets - waiting for a moment of
to maybe start trying.
Effortless sighs dulled by monotony, reverberating from worn streets, breaking apart at the seams where never ending ways are carved relentlessly — we never
Sitting in boxes and cages we build for ourselves,
some made from songs or cardboard, words with torn edges crumbling; others caged in blue light flickers: kidnapped into a forever-world that is
An offering of ‘let’s leave, let’s go, what are we waiting for?’ with a twist and crossed fingers behind its back.
Leaves us
sleepless in the knowledge that
behind windows people sleep
and rest —
have dreams,
wake up;
tricked death once more, aren’t dead already.
Rejuvenated by not being
like us.

Dodging sleep, or maybe it dodges us,
two positive ends of a magnet, evading each other.
Labelling us
‘The open-eye-dreamers”,
realisation too sharp,
cutting bubbles, safe-haven bursting,
spilling dreams onto backbones and fingertips,
rubbing them into skin,
trying to keep it youthful
when night comes to rob us ofour youth.
And in made beds we lie and never close our eyes.
And it comes to us
so easily, we don’t need to try.
To be sleepless.
We sleep less and less and less
until the little we have is stripped away and a bed becomes only a bed,
clinical, cold,
a piece of living.
And we live and live, we
live less.
Love less,
leave less
behind to come back to because
what more is there after
you leave layer after layer
on a mattress that doesn’t cushion the shed-self fall?
Become blissfully sleepless,
embrace the state it’s always been,
absorb the pace the night moves in.
A forgiving speed.
The hours become slow after the clock plays its
daily groundhog-day-esque ritual
And begins anew. Trickling like honey in this handful of hours between reality and what’s real.
We are the marathon of every extended edition plus pre- and sequel of the “Lord of the Rings” director’s cut —
until the credits roll and then some.

Dawn comes and the ombre sky spills beauty into eyes,
onto thirsty cheeks;
clothes us, it’s the armour of the -
“sleepless” on a banner, proudly waving it in our own sky.
Holding out our hands to greet sleep like an old friend, a long lost brother, inviting him in
For a chat.
And a tale as old as you feel after waking for so long lulls you in
neon lights bright forgotten long lost corners and billboards streets that have to end somewhere right they have to end somewhere but where please let me know we will never know maybe at the end of the tunnel
bright neon lights clothing us in something else completely too abstract to paint it on canvases maybe not meant to be seen and heard and touched in lights bright neon yellow can never grace skin in beds made for us thinking waking outside of our boxes and cages and
blue flickering lights can never hold us forever demanding to dream hold onto everything spiralling out of focus our long lost layers shed anew and we will

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