Poetry and Congestion

Well I know all of my adoring readers must be absolutely starved for content right now, given the fact that Belinda has been taking her sweet time to post again. Perhaps this online taunt will draw her out from 'the real world,' where she's been hiding from her duties of online notoriety. As for myself, I'm sick as hell this week with a cold and not happy about much, given my return to the cursed monotony of homework and spending my leisure time strolling around the cultural sinkhole that is the University of San Francisco. Because of the illness that has befallen me, I've lost a good deal of sleep and therefore my razor wit. However, you mustn't fear, gentle readers, for I will return to you with more of my generally negative opinions on observable reality in due time. For now, be disgusted with another poem, also concerning sleeplessness, although perhaps not for the common cold. Be warned, this is a cruel work.

"Insomniac"

Dear woman of dreams long past,
I'm writing to you
only because I can't sleep.
I'm entangled with a murderous mattress,
My comforter offers no comfort, and
My blanket is no longer blank
with the advent of my Van Gogh sweat,
painting the yellow celestial bodies of my suffering.
I started writing again, and now
it's the literature that keeps me up.
(How else could I find time for this?)
I roll over, the horror! the horror!
The clockwork orange reads 19:84;
Hm, I'll never understand military time.
I see The Wasteland
everytime I go to the fridge.
However, right now there's a French author
concerned with memory
that I just can't get out of my head.
I give in
and open my eyes
to my monitor's hypnotic blue glow
washing over the rectangles of my cell, and
suddenly the sights of Cabrio flood my mind.
I can picture the blue pulsing waves
rolling in and out over the discarded corona bottles
and empty boxes.
The filthy beach where we made love.
Laying by my naked leg is an empty bottle of vodka:
your favorite.
I can't recall your bedroom
without the taste of the clear Russian,
the white absent, and the warm milk
spoiled, never to touch human lips.
I made a Freudian slip
when I accidentally spilled it
on that CD you got at a hole in the wall noise joint called
The Smell.
God-forsaken place!
Strangely enough, it was not the offensive scents
that ruined me.
But that screaming, demonic hysteria, the sound
worse than a hungry newborn's cry.
My highlight remains the moshpit bloody nose
I walked away with.
And It's funny really,
because that last incident reminds me
of the time I couldn't sleep
because of the innocent blood
that permeated my sheets
and painted our masterpiece.

- SL