Thirty-three: Trapdoor

Sometimes I see lights on the ceiling,
even though my eyes are closed. And
my arms flap like wings to get me off
this bed, even though they’re not in
their sockets. Blind and crippled, I
swim into sleep, a cockney voice
whining in my ear like the silent
hum of night.  Sometimes my legs
spread, starfish in my restlessness.
There are trees sprouting in my mind,
mushrooming like waterfalls; they
stretch over every thought, distracting
me so I don’t see the spider  climbing
out of the trapdoor between my legs.
Dreaming about getting off and now
wishing I had never got on at all.

The night lights a cigar and sneers,
I want to watch you try to sleep.

Needs editing.

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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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