Saturday Morning Alarm Clock

my dreams are torn
a sound like jets
my wife lies awake
but I'm not yet.
back into slumber
quiet resets
then again it comes
and again they're wrecked
she's reading her book
while I am still sleeping
each page is a hook
that leaves me seeping
each flip of a page
is a banshee's shriek
a cellulose rage
at her turning technique
the paper cuts
slice my dreams to shreds
all bled out
guess I'll get out of bed

(with apologies to Emily Dickinson - There is no 'frig it! ' like a book being read in bed next to you. Especially when one is, perhaps, a wee bit hungover that morning)

by Chuck Audette

Comments (7)

Hi Chuck I've banned reading in our bedroom unless it's done properly and professionally, and without noice. Just a thought, 'There's rubber everything else', it occurs to me that rubber books wouldn't make a noise. Careful.....this could start a fetish Great Read Steve
In the morning, silence is golden... just like your poems. Great write, Chuck! Brian
'the paper cuts slice my dreams to shreds..' pure genius. Really enjoyed this poem packed with vivid imagery. The subtle humour evident too. Kind regards. Justine.
There is no excuse for treating a hangover victim with anything other than tender loving silence. Hugs Anna xxx
Wow - I love this one! You've succeeded in causing me one heckuva headache just reading this! You've reached a lot of people with this poem, Chuck. Well-done, friend, so take a '10'. Est : ]
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