CANTO IV (continued)

"Excuse me, this is the ALMIGHTY speaking.
I sent you to save me,
as Wotan sent his will before me.
You are my last roll of the dice.
I warn you against the seduction of chattering classes
with their lower interest rates and balancing banks.
I weaponed you with poetic tools.
Didn’t I appoint a Jesuit to educate your pen.
Follow your nose to the source of the smell.
I’ve given you heroic couplets,
don’t waste them.
My Almight better half waits
rampant with rage,
persecuted by the prospect of peace with fools.
It is my wish she stay dreaming her nightmares
lest she wake to the music of regime change
in the heavens,
and Paradise return to its earthly roots.
I’m banking on you to consort with fairies in wishing wells.
Go behind the aparations in trees
into the stone.  Crack rocks
until the splinters fly and chancers die."  

"SLEEP’s my name.  You can call me SLUMBER.
If you need to curse my absence,
do it quietly.  There’s a child to consider.
Mine is the province of the night.
All who know me God know well
I’m used to being forgotten.
You are watched over while you wear my clothes.
The character of SLEEP overpowered the man with the tea,
spoke for the side of him he’d rather keep hidden.
The chill of the tile, draft round the door,
click of kettle, tick of clock,
fresh from snoring,
unable to recall the fuss you made during the night,
I stayed with you minding your body,
so your soul could breathe.
My work never done in light,
you wouldn’t even recognise me
if I bit you during a daydream.
You and I go so far back,
it was there for the conception,
the big bang, when the ruddy little sperm
cornered your egg and disturbed sleep into life.
It was as if Adam met Eve full on,
screwed her out of the garden,
called me into action
into eternity.

Is there an Omega in the House?
Alpha Male was the name
they all assumed fit for my temper.
But on my wrist the shape of my father Frank.
Tell me it is time the sun took over,
sent SLEEP off to play with MOON.
I’ve drunk suffice of SLEEP.
That was the harvest of the third of November,
done and stored,
never knowingly undersold.
Morning’s the time for confusion,
when all commerce seems a gigantic fraud
committed without remorse
by the school of thought that specialises in
"Property is Theft".
Left to my own devices,
I would never sleep,
in case I’d be caught out
of the morning demand for clarity before charity…  [to be continued]