I hate weekdays and I hate weekends too

And so
Still
I will rise 

From unsettling somnambulation that wove through shadowy spectres of my unconscious 
From  violent vacant visions and slow dance Macabre hunting beneath Lunar glow

I will

Scratch silent the repeat of the turning table and let the rhythm be
Let limbs launch me into the ache of awake and march 1,2,3, 1,2,3 into empty

Still

I scribble another cliche on a page that delivers only sighs or the aversion of eyes
As lonely as its producer, pumped out like a mass made grief

And so

Lids blink and fingers sink into heavy and disappear into my thinking
Tea. Tea is made and I crease not a smile for weekend’s masquerade