by Arlea Whelan

sleep deprived antiquity reeks

from my prefrontal organism

        unauthorised syringes propose

        rapid eye movement in twenty four carats

religion is clinically dead

in the place where madmen sleep

  I hide my faith in the gaps between

        my molars and the other dozing

children pin-cushioned, we synchronise

the beat to which our cold blood is pushed

        from trigger finger

        to bullet hole

we sleep in nests of barbed wire

we sleep with both eyes open

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