Sport 16: Autumn 1996
iNSOMNiA
iNSOMNiA
My doctor has explained
that for years Churchill couldn’t
or wouldn’t sleep at all
except in startling bursts
of a few seconds duration.
In order to take them
just as directed,
I must first physically count
all hundred and ninety-six pills.
Then the fridge packs up
with a shuddery anal wheeze,
kwee-chit-shit.
Once I was stung on the lip
by a radioactive bee,
once when shifting a wardrobe
I swallowed a wasp,
and once a strange girl
tried to bite my tongue off
when I kissed her.
I think of Tycho de Brahe,
fastidious Danish atronomer,
who wore a golden mask
and fumed through it.