Spent Meat
March/April 2003 Issue One
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[song of nails] john sweet

this place i've come to
with cold wooden floors and
cracked windows

the sudden realization
that there is a vast empty space
between saying nothing and
having nothing to say

the taste of someone

flesh or sweat or
bitter tears

the act
of causing pain

of drawing blood

remember that christ
cared about
no one's crucifixion but
his own

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[Confessions Of An Insomniac] Dan Provost

Sleep is brittle, wasted
on boys who prefer
to read tea leaves at noon
with haughty neighbors.

Sleep is weak, forced
entry of daily escapades...
a fragment of tired excuses
not to witness
the alone hours.

Sleep is the accepted excursion.
The final sail into
the last drop of oil.
A mental trip of unwanted
desires and woes.
Sleep is never bloodstained
eyes that dart
between laser light
and Dante's dark...isolated
with thought of dazed yesteryear.

Sleep is reaction.
Awake, foreplay.
Sleep is premature climax.
Awake, fake afterglow.
Sleep is the final demon.
Insomnia the spell.

Sleep is, need
I say, the last step.
Awake, the slow march.