Not a morning person

All in arms, locked and set,
Iconic time on display –
As regular as a runner’s breath,
As on the dot as an IT man.
A repetitive siren
Like superficial wounds;
Nasal and pitched high and mighty,
Deafening like fizzy pop;
Bloating like a glutton’s belly;
Jolting like the working class;
A maniacal hurricane;
Increasing in strength
Like a neglected woman,
Muffled through feathers of freedom.
Olfactory hands:
Sniffing, searching, sifting;
But always a moment too late
Like a good comeback.
Visual fingers
Looking, scanning:
Tough choices of X’s and Z’s;
Alphabet dreams end.
Suctioned like ill-humor,
Absorbed and deteriorating –
Another day begins.

Inspired to write today by the third line of the 82nd page of the book next to me: The Norton Anthology of Modern and Contemporary Poetry: Volume 1, Modern Poetry. 
The lines are from the poem: Spelt from Sibyl's Leaves (1886) by Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889)

Where, self wrung, selfstrung, sheathe- and shelterless, thoughts against
    thoughts in groans grind.

For whatever reason they reminded me of how I feel when the alarm rings in the morning. Plus I need to practice pushing my metaphors and similies; of which you see the result here. Not exactly as prompted but who cares!

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