In the House of Insomniacs

Freckled phosphenes flicker through 
paper-thin skin as
corpuscles bounce onto
egg-shell sensitivity.

Salty eyes survey the scorched screen
where fragmented images have been laid 
by hessian brushstrokes
and monochrome shadows dance
to throbbing visions in the hall of half-sleep.

The distant screech of a lone owl
befriends the anonymous night.

Atonal phrases, reversed images, 
neologistic nattering magnifying words 
while ignoring the fine art of speaking,
where permission to rest is withdrawn.

Voices whisper noisome nothings
as the sleep prospectors mindlessly 
mine another far-flung valley
or scale another grey wall.


Worthlessness

I was walking along a winding tarmac path
contemplating my own inconsequentiality
and that I find it best not to dwell 
on a pointless search for purpose.

It doesn’t matter to me whether existence 
is like an intergalactic vacuum.

Am I any more important 
than tiny transparent spider?

Do you know how the world ends?
Is it with a cloud of honey-scented candyfloss?

Maybe it just heats up so much we all melt.

I could be an important politician.
I could say something like “Imagine yourself in my shoes, 
I have all the power of the free world.”

But actually,
it makes me feel much better 
to acknowledge my own worthlessness.