it's 5 a.m.: do you know who you are?

the air con hums like the engine of some long range bomber plane in WW2, where james coburn has to shout to his troops so that they can hear him, and he looks brown and worn, tough and trustworthy... the hum talks my body into sleep, to fight the brain which is walking up and down with jackboots, strict, martial and alert, berserk with unfocused, Teutonic energy and derring do...

i'm cosy in my blue blanket, my security for fifteen years, keeping my right knee warm and toasty, this being the self-same knee that has twisted itself and i swear i heard the sound of bone against bone when i was trying to score with my right, which is always difficult since i am left footed. the pain is a new one and yet old,takes me back to 20 years ago when i scraped it falling off my dad's uncool red bsa ambassador bike, i remember the gravelly road, and i wore clumsy bandages around it and felt heroic while limping skinnily to school, i wonder what my sea of memories shall be like if i grow old and the data in my head keeps erasing itself and recording itself in interstices, inlets and bays, bad sectors I've had a few, but then, too few to dwell on

pictures fly through my head,
tripping, but i'm not buzzed,
am awake, alert and don't quite know what to do with it,
it's rare and overflowing, i don't want to lose it,
the unwritten novel is a virgin file in the personal folder,
the unfinished script is stretched out on a lounge bed near the blue shining sea, waiting for the call-up, getting a tan, sipping colourful martinis and watching the bellibone walk by,
feeling diphtheria, when you're near,
remembering my friend's car, and 1991,
watching the dawn of a new era,
also sprake zarathustra as the planes fly out to carpet bomb my good intentions,
if i could wake up like this for 30 days in a row
i would have done well, and my head could legitimately swell
napoleon said 3 minutes of concentration,
was all it took,
and i bought the hook...