Notes from the Insomniac


 ​​ ​​ ​​​​ Until nothing remains that is surely you​​ 

–John Ashbery



by the hug of your belly,​​ I​​ return

warmth from the smack​​ 

of​​ the day’s chlorine. The grains​​ 

grey, disturb themselves,​​ become




in the clinch of the sheet. Your​​ language​​ ​​ 

abandoned​​ its reflexive​​ long ago; like the​​ ​​ 

mottled​​ temperature of waking​​ 


in a foreign​​ hour, the era​​ of a​​ 

different bacteria and noise upon​​ 

the stone blurring your tenses knowing​​ 




only that we are breathless







in the mean time, the light​​ 

had turned phosphor, struck​​ 

our palate with the absurd you​​ 

had dismissed as juvenilia​​ 


on the doorstep breaking upon​​ 

what had failed to settle since​​ 

failing to go to sleep, turning​​ 

over, the continual delay,​​ 


a​​ really, I’m going to get my shit​​ 

together​​ kind of week, beginnings​​ 

burrowing into endings and give​​ 

me a second will you


start the update, will you

remind me tomorrow







but I​​ am also like that. Times​​ 

beyond​​ measure, at the​​ unexplainable

interface of, still against​​ a​​ 

wall​​ of thought where we​​ 


find ourselves closer to that.​​ Failing,​​ 

small among the sizing, since​​ 

the tempo has softened the edge​​ of

it is both outlined &

inchoate.​​ It doesn’t take much effort to​​ 

believe​​ that this​​ mood is in –​​ 

compatible with such a barren​​ 


climate. Except all of your effort​​ 

to match winter,​​ strip the particular​​ 

blue knuckles,​​ freezing sloes like icing​​ 

your bruises,​​ the

ground, white &​​ 

dry & too wet:​​ where you feel less​​ 

desperate because everything else is​​ 

not too fussed about dying, you



that as soon as the pitch ​​ 

of your thinking joins​​ the most


distant rhythm, it will have found sufficiency​​ 

&​​ will no longer be enough





you can be​​ small

& difficult, an un-jarred​​ 

hyphenation where the colour swam​​ 

like light investing mud, you can display​​ 


the cost of​​ 

your​​ labour in the wracked condensation,​​ like

adjectives, like being misunderstood​​ 

in spring​​ 


you can remain​​ 

beautifully un-known in winter, bearding​​ 

against the noun, pasting particularity to​​ 

collage effect​​ 


you can stress​​ 

that you are depressed, happy, in love:​​ 

in your heist of​​ the abstract​​ you can​​ 

be​​ here


but refuse only silence & let me​​ hold

your hand​​ ​​ 







accept that yes, even in the quiet

melt of notes, the hand cannot​​ quite

keep desperation, drying​​ 

leaves, away. A raindrop expands on​​ 


impact, something like​​ 

spit & the immediate gathering of​​ 

what is immaculate in its​​ 

dryness, at its periphery, exhaling.


Think of the​​ raked​​ pile in summer,​​ 

caked but​​ thronging​​ shade​​ like​​ 

infection, like​​ two-inch​​ deep

surface​​ hurting like a certain​​ 


reactivity to sunlight, accept​​ 

that we may not be desperate​​ 

but​​ we will be.


Think of using metaphor,​​ ​​ 

abandon metaphor for the​​ 

depth it demands. I want a​​ 

horizontal translation, traversal​​ 


across the sound & a desire to​​ 

retain the side-step of colour​​ 

without hurting for​​ three letters:​​ 


for the structure, drawing from​​ the








in the middle of an accelerating​​ 

scale, you bite your thumbnail​​ 


the taste of a chemical flowers (dehisces)​​ 

like a panic attack on your tongue,​​ 


thick & fake-like petals. Your​​ mum​​ 

flashes about; taking you out of your​​ 


daily excretion of the prosaic, unable​​ 

to be reassured by the smoothly lit​​ 


surface of a distant water-tower, pink,​​ 

I feel weak in the hurtling​​ bulk of the​​ 


beech saplings,​​ older than I’ll ever​​ 

be, or was it in the city, histamine,​​ 


you can’t remember​​ 

how far the nearest A&E was the last​​ 


time this didn’t happen







the clarity, a nipple​​ in its​​ 

immensity; the labouring​​ 

verbs of trees,​​ an ache for puncture​​ you are​​ 

unable to​​ fill. You step with​​ a propulsive​​ 


& to delay​​ limit, congealing​​ 

fiction to clot the expanse in​​ 

something unfamiliar but​​ 

close, at least, you wound​​ 


the sky,​​ with​​ your life & future,​​ 

with thought. Loud and​​ 

barbaric​​ the spatial ‘&’, doused​​ 

electric like ‘Impressions’ becomes​​ 


time, cold & delineated, you turn









the prophecy of urine, alternately​​ 

clouding & run​​ clear


a flood of headlights, a phone latent

like what you overheard


about wormholes, like refusing to know

the time







from the static

they are strewing themselves, a wounding &

un-wounding of daylight. Heaving in their​​ 

return to drama & what changes by afternoon. You​​ 

check your phone,​​ 

consider an aspect​​ 

of the immediate future, I​​ spend time​​ ​​ 

fuelling​​ a subjunctive, like the swell of dust in​​ 

a new interface, or emotion,​​ 


Ben Morgan is in a one-man punk band from Suffolk, United Kingdom. He graduated from University College London where he studied English Literature and was published in Savage. He has received no accolades of note.