It all no sleep

When lining of, the finger skin,
will not peel to rhetoric,
but lingers on like sodding guest
what ate the biscuits and the bread,
and won't stop chatter loud,
opinions cigarettes in choke,
currency of small big house...

then in your mattress place
of many pillows, clip-on sky
of stripe-y quilt, you smack your head
like naughty boy, before days when,
such punishment was now not nice.

Sleep elusive, like a name, of
body-bits in cellar place,
where coppers come, in afternoon,
and blood comes out, of copper's pipes.
Twisted sentence now last refuge this,
serial sadist of syntax and salt;
metre-wounds and foot-ie screws.

I am place, conscious with pain,
inside rock where re-lax dies,
like prophet without gods or men,
even bushes, caves, and sand.

I am teeny, tiny form,
house of clauses, comma-bricks.
Locked inside awake bedroom.
Fake or without wordies, real,
it all no sleep brings you.