New poem

Insomnia

This is the burning eye hour,
the time of twitching limbs.
When the black hooded bully beast
circles, then leaps,
jabs his club
into the soft, tender places,
most easily bruised.
He tapes on wires,
and turns on current,
gags the freeing scream.
I hear him laugh,
when tired of his games,
he leaves,
stomping one last
boot print on my neck.
My Inquisitioner,
he is the camp guard,
the kidnapper
I kiss in Stockholm's way.

Copyright 2007.

poetry, insomnia