Sleeping a Bit of Crazy

 

A bit of sleep,

not necessarily the kind sort, still

something beyond the rips and snips of slumberland,

and the aching afghan-tussle and self-sparring,

past suffocation as a remedy.

Any such thing as true sleep, with

consciousness lapsed by chamomile falsettos,

with plum-spiced, haloed, windsor-knotted

succulent fairies, all of whom

are bite-size and richly flavored…

what an amassed dream of desperation.

A bit of sleep,

nothing need be kind, still

something beyond cloying, beyond clawing,

and the tremors and the sweats, can’t they

tumble off the mattress like the pillows and the top sheets?

Any such thing as true sleep, with

cognizance mutated by smudges of aerodynamics,

with stratospheric giggles and glides,

a Blue Angel topsy-turvy within a bass groove… if the eyes

closed so hard they bleed, does that happen?

A bit of sleep,

relinquish any exhibited kindness, still

something tolerable, maybe ignorable, just

a few hours to quiver and doze, not much to ask, a bit of something,

a passing of time during reruns and snack crackers.

Reviews

[SLOVA]

This is gorgeous. The simple, but bold word choice creates a euphony. I adore this.

SLOVA

[Cliff Rhodes]

This is an amazing cacophony of sounds, syllables and mental images! Wow!

Yes, I have wanted the same, just a teeny bit of sleep and all would be well. I used to hold a pencil between my fingers and when it dropped I was awakened by the crash of it on the table top, so I could still be vigilant of my surroundings.

On graveyard shift, that little bitty moment of sleep was just enough to give me even a second of heaven and to be rejuvinated and alert.