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Poem
I was born married to the master of subservience,
      fell in love with the master of somnolence.
           
I dissolved Reality, divorced carnal calamites,
and the raw ache of captivated chaos.
I commanded a tactical tilling of damning emotions
and made a bed among the poppies,
so I could forever seduce Sleep at the edge of Oblivion.

I sold my soul and barely chafed chastity
for a phenomenal phantasm of passionless pleasures
beyond Gates of Ivory.

Wafting winds cradled creativity and I was a starving minion,
a zealous zephyr, questing after the deep highs
to capture luscious laughter and opium kisses
from Slumber’s linen wings.

My psyche reveled in these unrestrained orgies
climaxing far above ashen alleys
where life corroded the living.

A patron of illusions,
always hunting for more fruitful fascinations,
avoiding natural navigations through wicked whining
and the sight of probing pairs of crescent craters
searching for substance in battered faiths.

Deliberately oblivious to the sadistic salutes
of Godforsaken souls;
sleep inoculated against plagues of Pathos
that dawned with prehistoric procreation.

Amethyst apparitions fiercely feigning blindness
replaced callous captions with textile thoughts;
such beautiful deceptions, flawlessly manufactured
to be reality resistant.

Yet, I was sleep abandoned,
blistered by drops of winged darkness,
deceived by twisted twins.

Euphoria arrested, phantom limbs flailed,
swatting swarms of bleak sobriety
but Death was already aroused,
masturbating memories I thought I’d purged.

Retribution for a life lived at the edge of death?

Pollyanna caught loitering, rotting in sweet dreams
and living in the mirrored mirage of a Glad Book illustration.

My disturbed somniloquies became railroaded ramblings,
paranoid confessions of a Happy Addict,
torn from forgotten scenes, stripped of sunny sided semantics.

Death swaddled my crippled soul
mummified in the bunting guts
of my patchwork playground.

Each time I blink a resentful, halcyon curtain cries
yearning for my cuckolded Life.
This restless, sentient existence is eternally mine,
dictating discharges of cruel insomnia.

Pinched, folded, and squeezed
in the fiddling fingers of inescapable reality.
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