jazz from hell

 
mornings ought not to be complex, and
certainly not waking up
with a head full of jazz from hell

outside, the remorseless sun chews up dreams and
spits them out for an afternoon’s bad mood.

Arghh, black coffee bites my brain!
As thought is still impossible,
I stick a finger in my eye,
the stain of nicotine an acid bath sears the window to my soul,

fuck! stinging pain! I can barely see for tears as
the blinds serrate the smoky air
to furrows of light and dark,
as fugitive shadows slither away to refuge
under furniture & cracks in walls.


No, morning ought to be simple, like a tranquilliser.


So here I am
and there you are, asleep,
I can see you grinding dreams into the sheets
with those Aphrodite trance mix hips,


Fuck I can’t resist,
now, one hand on a buttock, the other between your cheeks
I spread you smell you, watch you arch
then fall relentless like the sea,
I wonder who you’re fucking in this dream?
It isn’t me, but
never mind, stories re-told make myths endure.

But it’s when you moan that I fall apart
and morning becomes less complex when I’m hard,
and even simpler when you’re wet, so wrap me up in skin,

but the jazz from hell plays louder still
when suddenly it occurs to me
I can’t remember who you are,
and I don’t know where you’ve been,

now morning’s really complicated,
what a bummer!
and the jazz from hell plays louder still.