Bed

Bed

Becomes an accustomed action

With parental aggression

I open my eyes a fraction, for the call

‘Go to bed’.

My back to the wall, knees pressed

To my head

I have broken the room

The lamp harbours shade

The day becomes dregs

The pelt on the plaid.

For I stare at the red cotton

 Cast on the carpet

Like a  splashed actress

Tantrum

Sounds like a fine material

When you let the words fall

On your own skin

I forget

 How I open my grin

In all its incision.

Curtains hide the disgrace

That I

Have learned nothing

For ‘bed’ becomes a dial

Replacing the eye

Not meant to have vision

Not yet

At this time of night.

It is half past eleven

My fingers pass through the ply

Of pixelation

For now I am really myself

 A mistress

Or is this a child

With bed still an address

Where the spine lies, embryonic curve

Of bed below body

Waiting for the verbs?

The pulse like a damp drum

But nothing ripens.

Screwing time

Lying into the morning

Still assumed to be night

With a smile undeceiving

-          Ah those tokens of truth

But the parents have spoken

The eyes are hidden

For another evening .