Morning after Freight

1.

Awake
from a sleep, diagonally sprawled
across a king-size bed, nightmares of
false-faced
men
crawling through shredded,
screened windows.

You hid under the coffee table,
stained dark.
I disappeared
into the fireplace adjacent from
you. I shimmied up the brick’s soot footing like

a raccoon carrying her young to safety.

The hallucinations of bat guano fuels the visions of Siamese
moonlight stuck to the back of the Baltic Sea.
They seem to be living off of one another,
fumes of smoking bananas, sleep waking for five months,
the hidden demons whispering in tongues of dead weight.


II.

I stir restless, morning growth attacks the
chin. The relentless approach of feral
fur leaches the frontal appearance.

Another display of surrealism.
An approach to unearth some fidelity.

You now slouch groggy, pulling yourself from
the tar that the sleep has laid out for you like
a blood-red carpet to hell, a

swan drowning in quicksand.

Your smile at dawn slaughters
bad moods similar to karate kicks
to the throat,
brass knuckles bursting the temple and eardrum.
Your voice makes birds jealous. They jettison
in to picture windows with unnatural avian envy.

The crows pick at their soulless carcasses