Sleep

Waves of delirium crash down,
Forcing my eyes shut; my head surrenders
And falls to the wall, my arms lax, the bedpost
Assaulted by nail varnish.

I know every smear on the window,
Every line on the bottle and every
Stitch on the worn carpet-
And I think,
And trace patterns on broken lace,
And measure bliss in shotglasses,
Locked in myself,
At three AM (or PM? I'm not sure).

Mum says the clock is 'fast' - but
It moves so damn slowly,
Pixel by pixel,
Forgetting to tick,
Electronically imitating the red tears
Trickling down my bare legs.

I think that this is what they call sleep.
Am I meant to relish this?