27.Oct.2001

sleep

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sleep.

5:15am.

The back of my throat is like an ash-tray, phantom smoke, fingernails scraping along the "H", the "P", the "Shift"key. Unfocused but broadly. Syntax and measure.

The sky breaks along a subdued distance of near-harsh-but-never-enough October wind. Reflection of pots, pans, woks, street-lights, in this window. My knee snaps, sleeping, bleared tendon, pink but unforgiving, stream-of-unconscious.

Dark like brandy in the bottom of my glass, but pure sugar, killer sugar. Soda. The phone's not ringing. 5:20am. Re-arranging contact lenses, donned in black and pink, sweaters, ceiling-fan-cool.

His eyes were ceiling-fan-cool.

I think I'm trying to write again, and I think this time, something's coming through.

Somnolence. Temples, blood goes lazily like molasses, sleep.

I want to brew sex-coffee and sleep.

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time & machine