…but it always returns full-circle.
So I drag myself out of bed,
throw on old clothes that smell
of half-arsed exercise and full-fat ejaculate.
The day plods on and I bear it,
I drag myself through every second,
a century between each solemn tick.

Midday announces itself with a rumble,
my stomach begging for a banquet.
I feed it a biscuit exposed too long to the air,
soft and crunch-less, mastication bypassed.
My brain conjures up an army of cigarettes,
marching towards me relentlessly,
blue smoke forming angels of death.
I roll and I smoke.

Evening is heralded with the gloom,
twilight masquerading as day.
The news is shit, wars and famine,
the usual, a malnourished child
walking on toothpicks.
My hunger mysteriously vanishes.
Her legs look just like long cigarettes.
I roll and I smoke.

A night spent watching porn,
hoping for some meaningful eye contact;
vapid expressions and faked orgasms
and dollar bills in her disinterested eyes.
I realise God must also be lonely,
so I imagine him wanking off to gay orgies,
like the good old days.
It started snowing, and I felt cold.
I know just the thing to warm me up.
I roll and I smoke.

I climb into bed for another battle with insomnia.
I imagine a woman I know
and what she must be doing right now.
Probably sleeping, the bitch.
I close my eyes and hope
that maybe tomorrow might never come,
that I may win unanimously against insomnia.
Maybe my life will stop here as I fall asleep…