I wish for coffee

amidst this nervous breakdown,

a warm floor to lay my head upon,

a radio to summon Mozart’s ghost,

time to stand still, and a host

of other things that seem

unreasonable and unreal

The morning is a fallacy

conjured by drunken bards

A passion play between cradle and grave

where I refuse to play a part

And so, I sit back, watch the blood splatter

across my television screen

and tell myself it was just a bad dream

after all