One cup of tea at 8pm

The clock struck

midnight.

Wide awake.

Chemicals

rabble rousing.

Crank.

Crank.

Crank.

Wind me up.

An old alarm clock

ticking.

I need pitch.

Grey matter itching.

My pores are

a billion tiny eyes,

soaking in each

stitch of

wayward light.

Street lamps.

The tiny red ember

of the space heater.

White moon.

I am a rooster

at the ready.

Limbs curled like

spaghetti.

Mouth dropped

open.

Throat full of bells.

I could wake hell.