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
