The fields from Islington to Marybone
To Primrose Hill and St John's Wood
Were builded over with pillars of gold
and there Jerusalem's pillars stood.

William Blake




This was written a few years ago in Paris, the first draft scribbled on
a greasy paper-bag as I walked the deserted streets of Sacre Coeur
in summer dawn. Therapeutic art often fails at the universal level
but I confess that writing Anti-Honeymoon kept my steps away
from the river. Perhaps there's something here for everyone,
we've all been this near the edge.

Here’s a man
who can’t sleep.
He waits for sleep,
sleep won’t come.
It never comes:
insomniacal hell.

He lies awake.
Night’s deep.
No more sleep,
no dream state.
Day can wait:
sleep is late.

The prison of love
where love dies
is this darkness
in which lies
a dying man
who softly cries.

He’ll die here,
or walk the streets
with angry tears
to change stone,
die here alone
or walk till dawn.

Some don’t sleep;
they don’t love
a fake world.
They are awake.
Pray to them now
for pity’s sake.

Love promised
in small hours
one dream night
all would come right.
Now love takes it back
with failing powers.

No more sleeping,
uneasily keeping
watch over this
broken bliss.
Flesh is weeping.
Sorrow’s reaping.

A heart has hit
the lowest hell.
No sleep, no dream,
no death to tell
the heart it’s over:
no passing bell.