INDIE MIDNIGHT 
near light is too soft to see

I remember a night long whiles ago — when black death found me — the bed was hard but my mind was soft, and everything felt half-steeped and diluted, and the light was loose and splashy and wine-coloured a wonderful rummy shade — and night was striking its zenith, with myself feeling nobody conscious about for years — none could possibly be hearing or sharing the rude-ness of my sudden awakening — the door was stoppered behind a large glass membrane, and i lay on the other side from where a large teabag was seeping leaves over a mountain of snoring and sprinkled corpses — and I prayed to be far away in Australia to to least have some feckless company — i would be welcome, impromptu circus and all, i would rather a have a slice of rapist and be translated from this half-dark than lie free of motion in a van — colourful striped poles, the bed twinkling with the hardening smell of caramel — laughter dangling before my nose from a mobile that i grab at with baby fists that refuse to adhere to the memory of clenching — and now there is nothing softer than my sheets and nothing looser than the drawstring of trousers across the world and  — nobody more grateful for sleeping clothed, so there would be things to take off and argons to take in — nothing yearning for a purer hydraulic release than my stomach pipette-full of urine than come gushing into the plastic bed in a half-controlled splutter, oxbow-ing from the tiny contractions of laughter and a failed attack of joy at midnight — generating electricity still.