MC Frontalot Follow

I stay up too late as a matter of habit.
It’s when the clucking in the head is signaling a think’s gravid
and going to drop an egg out; better not sleep through.
Better hope to have a microphone handy, too.
Here’s a handy clue: it’s a two part story.
Go to bed in the end, get up in the morning,
but don’t ask the third act, it happened as I slept.
Meant to maintain consciousness, wasn’t adept.
What was it I kept meaning to do, make happen,
from quarter to two until Gm come tapping,
like “Frontalot, you ought to come on out of your room.”
Says through the crack in the door that he can smell my perfume,
that I haven’t been to bed in a week. Come, come.
That’s a slight exaggeration and I’m almost done
with a brand new record, if I could just locate
the edit window that I first intended to create.

Spin around.
What does it do to your inner ear?
Your account:
don’t pay the dues?
You are in arrears.
What I’ve found
is we get just another day or two.
Falling down?
Dizziness does that to you.

Eventually give up on any thought that I got;
settle into the rotation of the loves-me-not.
And the bed’s right there but it don’t quite beckon;
try to sit upright for another couple seconds
and another knuckle reckons itself uncracked.
Can’t remember what I’m looking at, rewinding it back.
Trying to find an exact definition for the phobia
of getting into bed, I think instead I’m about to go to the
all night Brooklyn coffee supply.
Making terrible decisions and I don’t know why.
And my oh me oh, what is it to be oh?
Digital clock come creeping on the three-o-o,
but lying in the dark is worse,
and I may be in arrears with the sleep but averse
to trying to accomplish (is epic how I fail).
In opposition to the pillow, pillow prevails.