words

i am a dead battery,
each alarm a shot
of electric shock
in to quiet corners
of my head.

i grow further weary
through lack of sleep,
no sleep, only moments,
short interludes, reboots,
not enough to keep
this idiot machine moving.

a narcotic need
to power down,
process in smoke, in syrup,
alcohol and glitter.

i break a little
each morning, eyes red
and face white,
dying for sleep, for rest,
wanting it more than words,
than women, than understanding.

i rise from the floor
and commit a ritual
that is bound in blood,
one agreed to at conception
with some infinitesimal god
and i burn with fatigue
in this slow rotation,
grinding down to minerals
and little else.

-S.C. Martinez