Touche Eclat

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Touche Eclat


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!

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