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Last Updated: 10/06/2009 14:15:04
Ode to the Insomniac
By Scott Rorrison
Summer

Pixelated spectres drift through the train station:
Commuters going this way, and that,
Lives filled with collecting bric a brac
Stick in his soul
Like insomnia Weighted sheets.
Sleep is as far away
As the feel of a good woman

Waiting on platform two
An imperfect silk thigh
To run your fingers through,
A tapestry of sighs
Bronzed and perforated.
How long have you waited?


The hollow ghost song of the tannoy lady
Mocks in rapt amusement.

Trains are romantic.
He enjoys watching the girls
Especially the red-heads,
And the way passing leaves
Flicker the sun on-off
On-off.
Reminders of being slumped
In a hollow room
With a television he can't be bothered
To turn off;
Late night viewing
The innocent miss
Whilst snugly cocooned
In a cool clean bed

A dirty bed for a dirty boy

The voice insists.
The countryside subsides
With his panic-attack,
Replaced with mile upon mile
Of tarmac, the need to reach Leeds by car


Copyright Scott Rorrison 2009
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