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And they gang up on me, the thoughts,
between the hours of three and four,
and one by one, they knee me in the face,
like the bully girl who decked me
for trying to steal her boyfriend. A lie.
( I don’t steal boyfriends…only borrow.)
They gang up on me. Bloody my nose.
Put the boot in when I’m down.
And I think of the restless four a.m sea
at Aldeburgh in November,
and the fishermen camped out in luminous pods;
the poets asleep in the Poet’s House,
and how the sun’s not there then it is
pewtering, not warming: watery,
weak. I think of the sea at Aldeburgh
and fists pound my eyes.
Downstairs, in a make-up bag,
false radiance courtesy of Clarins
fails to disguise bruises sustained
courtesy of sleep fucking off,
courtesy of sleep showing up for the first
easy hour and a half
with somnolent charm and stroking.
Courtesy of sleep showing up then deserting.
PS Touche Eclat is made by Yves Saint Laurent not Clarins but a) It was written by an insomniac and b) Yes, I do have some posh cosmetics!