Sonnet To The Creature On The Floor

I didn’t mean it to turn out in something of a sonnet form but that’s just the way it ended. I wrote this at about four o’clock this morning, whilst being kept awake by a friend of mine’s prodigious snoring.

Dare I dare to be soothed,
by that sluttish snore,
accompanied by languish exhalations
from the space between dry lips –
only recently purged and returned
from the Americas.

And, occasionally, there will be a sound
like the breaking of an ancient seal before
a new aggression
pierces the air with its tip
I can spy no remnants of Mary, or Sarah
or any other Angelica
in this man’s ugly, drunken motions;
and his half-realised existential notions.

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