I woke up the next morning,
mouthful of strong cigarettes and bad whisky.
My lungs felt like lead weights.
it sounded like Tom Waits, singing in the gutter,
so I knew there was hope.
The sun rises
It rolls over me
It goes down and disappears
in the sultry, inert air
that moves not leaf nor hair
like the breath of the dead
or the sigh of angels.
The moon follows sun
The planets align
The stars wheel overhead
In the night’s darkest hour
when time slows down
to the separation of continents
or to the beat of broken wings.
The subtle scream of a distant ambulance
the harsh cry of a crow
the hum of the elevator
and her soft breathing beside me.
The fingers of dawn yet to creep through the blinds
the alien glow of the alarm clock
the annoying too-early church bells
disturb the darkness of the room.
I get up.
An on-off night and a mosquito in my ear and I fumble in the dark and then it disappeared but now the night has gone for good for me as I lay there and think of what I have to do, what I probably should do and what I’d like to do and all the while a soundtrack is playing in my head and it’s Manfred Mann’s version of The Mighty Quinn which is not a bad song at 5.30 in the morning, although I’m yawning but now I really want to hear it but that means getting up and using technology and 5.30’s far too early for technology, after all, I’d only check the news and see big, fat Mike Pompeo bully another sick and twisted little country with sanctions, sanctions and, ah! stick your sanctions up your ass, fatty, so it’s no technology for me, like a smoker avoiding his first cigarette to let his lungs breathe, you see, and now I’d love a coffee now I’m up with the birds but I guess putting on the kettle is still technology but I could really use that coffee while my pencil scrawls my morning scribble across an unwritten page.
4am and the world is unmoving,
until I step outside.
The air is warm and still and
the terracotta tiles are cool beneath my feet
A half-moon headlight casts my shadow
A scattering of stars against a black velvet backdrop
Mars; loud, red and angry
and the owls compete for who can hoot the loudest
and I, alone, breathe the morning
and I, alone, feel the morning
and I, alone, become the morning
and I, alone, am the morning.