An indulgence

insomnia

an irruption,
beyond barriers,
what barriers? a trail of nothingness leading to a nowhere made by no one,
the all too familiar red flash, the rush like a crowd of bats in a cave,
the agony of kitsch...
ah, kitsch – the irony of ironies! the biggest insult to irony perhaps,
or not, I can’t really tell.
yet, kitsch!

washed away by an ocean in a universe of oblivion,
every ounce of it biting into skin,
up and down, down and up, like one of those corny ‘pop the weasel’ games at the arcade.
the mallet crashes down on my head.
pinpricks in the bright darkness,
everything blurs into fadedness, and then it goes away.

only to be replaced by a dazzling white pain,
numbness, its whore, not far behind;
they dance a marvellous dance, dance in the ballroom of death –
death, the wife that approves of the mistress –
a smile turns into a grimace...
it dissolves with the reek of acid fumes.
sleep has never been so far away; nor has wakefulness,
old news, old as the little grey cells - why never the white?
can’t they be wrong, all of them?

a reversion to normalcy, atavism it would seem to be.
nothing could be more abnormal.
kitsch is dead, finally, so too everything else.
and I,
celebration...bliss!
maybe there is a god out there,
ah, stop screwing with my head.
everything goes blank, finally,
until some bastard turns the power back on.
irony keeps me awake that day.