Insomnia stems from me
with petals sickly green
lying in a discarded pile
around the shape of a translucent vase
with the two eye-balls floating in the liquid,
baby blue and watery
bloodshot from the lack of sleep,
they cry into the water—
They belong to me.

Ginger —
hair and beard and beer,
brighter than a maple's leaf
gliding in the cool October air
down onto the ground.
Grasshopper's legs and church-mouse rags
and a sweet brogue,
in this world of impotency and political correctness
I dare not speak its name.
You —
there are too many sips of bitterness from Earth's drinking horn for me to make
before I may find
on the bottom
drenched and shimmery —
you.

Pints of sweat-drops and tear-drops and blood-drops,
Ounces of scorched, rotting flash,
Edges, cages, all Dark Ages: waiting for
This.