talking in bed.

it is poetry time, boys and girls...

Talking in bed ought to be easiest,
Lying together there goes back so far,
An emblem of two people being honest.

Larkin.


i am sleepy, sleepy, sleepy now. i hope this leads to sleep. i am slowly reading poetry, the mind race ended somewhat, i am slowing to sleep, to dream, i hope, little lands, little pieces time forgotten. lazily reading poetry, non-committal. lazily belligerent, sloppily dozy. languid languid, frustrated, more than a little, switching things over a little, frustrated.

we've got this idea of love as some all conqueror. what wisdom is there but that of the heart, eh? and what, oh what, are we left with when that is disposed? when we slowly ease into logic and sense, snidely looking over the past, and present, and realistically asses the situation, and are left, contempt, metallic, passage of adolescence in a loop over loop, drama and theatrics and a surrender of control for desires? and i'm a child? it's behaviour, behaviour, easy not hard, loll about and luxuriate in a place of control, your hands are free now, you think you have the keys...

the anger is still gone. i think it is finished. i think i understand, half holding a question or two. and it's a lazy sort of feeling i am left with, like an overweight cat on a couch, eyes half shut, that cynical glance, and that fluffy apparition moving from room to room under your feet, between your feet, brushing the tail idly up your leg. let us sublimate for logic, let's pass it out, let's see what happens. let's wait. let's wait. but i am not waiting oh No, i'm not sitting back, claws tucked in, adoring at your feet. my teeth are able, and i'll hunt as i please, hungry cat, long soft whiskers, don't look so frustrated now.

i've got quiet expectations of happiness. i like to lead myself into slightly less uncomfortable situations, but end up constantly caught taut ribbons around legs, oh i tripped, there's egg on my face, it tastes like chocolate and that sugary white and sugary yoke, and you just do it for attention, right, like a child throwing a tantrum to the air, well, i'm stronger now, and i'll not stand back, hands to the sky and flag falling, arms out, take me, your life is mine, because it is not. my life is mine, my soul is mine, and i live for myself. my pleasure comes, my desire comes not from anything or anyone else, it is that pulse, it is that instinct, it is that freedom. i have those little claws, and i am speaking from myself again and able to defend the borders to the edge of the map; lines drawn clearly in white oil paint, fingers dug into the soft texture. my name is here, and my place is marked, and do not violate an inch of it. oh you won't now, because i am where i belong, the control is mine, that little lead, that little line, and i'll follow it where it goes, curious now. i am watching that madness to see it doesn't slip back. i hold the cards. it's my game.