jazz from hell

morning ought not be complex, and
certainly not having to wake up
with a head full of jazz from hell
as the remorseless sun chews up dreams and spits them out for an afternoon’s bad mood

arghh, black coffee bites my brain,
I stick a finger in my eye,
the stain of nicotine an acid bath sears the window to my soul,
fuck! stinging pain! I can barely see for tears as the blinds serrate the smoky air
to furrows of light and dark,
and fugitive shadows slither away to refuge
under furniture or cracks in walls ...

no, morning ought to be simple, like a tranquilliser ...

so here I am
and there you are, asleep,
I can see you
grinding dreams into the sheets
with those aphrodite trance mix hips,

I can’t resist,
now, one hand on a buttock, the other between your cheeks
I spread you smell you
watch you arch then fall relentless like the sea,
I wonder who it is you’re fucking?
nevermind,
stories re-told make myths endure ...

but it’s when you moan that I fall apart
and morning becomes less complex when I’m hard,
and even simpler when you’re wet, so wrap me up in skin,
but the jazz from hell plays louder
when it suddenly occurs to me
I can’t remember who you are,
and I don’t know where you’ve been ...
now morning’s really complicated,
man, what a bummer!
as the jazz from hell plays louder still.