The Insomniac
It takes four hours to get me off to sleep Or seven whiskies. Otherwise I watch The light fade off the ceiling, curse and writhe In my own putrefaction. If 1 drink, At four a.m., just like a damned old clock I wake and whirr with tension. Have to go Off to get rid of the drink and then come back To my sweaty rack. Dreams are not too bad, Rape and incest and murder—that's all right, I've a dirty mind, like most. What I can't stand's Recrimination. All my wrongs return Like doomed souls to knock on my brain and whine In voices just like mine—of those who stood And watched me struggle with interest until I was left with an aged body and dummy eye. Of thosewho wouldn't give me jobs. I here are Professors whom I could endure to see Boiled in oil and whipped with scorpions. That Would just about make my day. But most of all I waking dream of sleep, and dreaming wake To ache and sweat and torment. Think die?
No fear of that. I'll lie for years and years Cursing my luck which first cursed me. You see All insomniacs are death-worshippers.
PHILIP HOBSBAUM
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