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




We are those who stay awake through the machine-age, hypersensitized, self-observant among the automatons. 'Insomnia' is for us, who prefer
the kick of the hoof in the small hours to the pat on the back from the god of corporatism.

Dead of night, alone. The distant
murmur of an engine lends emphasis
to a drop of water which becomes
a neighbour’s hammer on the wall.

Serotonin drips down your spine.
The mind is open to every doubt.
Your worst enemy is on the prowl:
the cat-burglar of night thoughts.

Sleeplessness is an ancient maze.
In it you lose the way to yourself.
Mind spins, searching for a centre.
Truth is a far off fountain singing.

Dead of night. The stars crackle,
the streets hum with void music.
Sirens spin through a vast town.
You alone hear, all are sleeping.