Thirteen

curses glued together
with deep black sleep,
when i tug at your pyjama leg,
seep forth through your teeth
gritted
holding back mouthfuls of dreams.

somewhere,
your head forgets the pillow,
and morning filters orange
into your speech.

you talk to me
in one word clarity.

you stretch, your fingers flex,
you are reluctant to leave behind
familiar warmth
of promises, prophecies, visions hidden
that you promise to tell me.

the black of your eyes have a single shine,
each.
you smile,
remembering how ugly you are.

it is morning.
you smile.
it is morning.

i laugh,
loving it every single time
you wake up
to me.

Twelve

Stillness.

I can hear sleep.

The gentle rustle of people absently adjusting the sheets.
An occasional sigh in response to a nerve-generated movie blaring
soundlessly, colourlessly
on a pervading black.
Beetles bugging their highpitched lullabies that they practiced all day long,
and suddenly, cleared their throats.
Automobiles on roads a kilometer away, doing dizzy speeds, groaning under commodity, guiltily sounding their horns.
The distant, bored mid-
nightwatchman.
A muted yelp, when leaves rustle.
A conscious, testing bark.

insomnia.
the keyskin depressing, stretching, flexing,
at my command.

i can hear
silence:

supersonic pixel-made sounds sourced from the telly gagged
by the mute button.

rhythms set at morning,
unfastening buttons hastily at night.

night,
bored canvas.


10.11.06