Published at The Screech Owl
As I slumber down into the skeletal chair
with six Philip Ridley plays and a bottle of Amaro
to test my focus, my left eye suddenly blurs over
but not from the outside.
A waking cog
has clicked into place
deep inside this man machine.
In the time it takes to fumble the carriage return
there’s a tight-wound cloud behind my eye,
suspended over a breezeless landscape,
the body clock chimes the rhymes at midnight
and I now see from the right side only.