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Sleepless in Colombo There’s my bed, a siren Of a streetlight flailed across, vague And strangely hard for beer’s Machismo spirit to subdue. French windows, guillotined By a diamond grille, Transfuse night’s dark blood, morphine To this insomniac: it brings No satisfaction. It’s not me that’s high. Some clockwork dog goes off Off, off, Every bloody hour. My eyes’ canopies flicker Like old men threatening to die Awake, asleep, awake, they’re mindless Or should be. Time for a new lover, that old siren’s Been working too hard. This time Make sure she’s cold, black Overpowering And utterly forgettable. |
This Poem was Critiqued By: Mark Steven Scheffer On Date: 2004-08-04 18:07:57
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
MAH,
Fortunately, i've never suffered from sleeplessness: perhaps I don't have a conscience. No - I think i do. I'm not trolling (or trolloping)for sirens. Yeah, that's it.
Oh. Splendid poem. I felt like i was there . . . young man.
Awake in Philadelphia,
MSS