Bed Monsters

the weight of light
and my filthy mouth
and every methodical second
reminded me
never to sleep alone again.

if you die before me
and I am a shaking old man
with an open mouth
staring at the ointments on isle four
i will be sadder than the Pacific Ocean.

you make me want to own a gun
so I can point it at the world
and you can touch me
and tell me
to calm down.

bed monsters
good and bad
sex
tears
and living.

bed monsters
a friend of mine shot himself
in his bed,
the bullet piercing the brain
and both matresses.

two cats
a dog
wife
erection
and me.



I write mostly as a woman.
I saw Katy walking across the bridge towards me. She was bouncing with each step talking on the phone. She wore a colorful sundress and sunglasses. My wife squinted at me as we got out of the car to look for work.
Katy became good friends with us, going to the river and drinking Kentuckys bounty. She got me a job at the bar she worked at and we compared our mutual bodily decay as we freely drank wiskey between customers. The winter set in and so did the darkness in her.
“I hate wisdom. No one is sadder than the thinker.” She chased these ideas with cigarette smoke. “I used to care, I am old. This is hell.” I agreed. An hour later she was a weeping mess, throwing objects at me, I think, because she loved me. I politely dodged and went home to warm bed and wife. Then I quit drinking, wich alowed me to finish my first book, the infuriating anti clamax leaving the protagonist alone, drunk and subject to panic atacks in a small apartment.
We are leaving now. Recently I saw Katy crossing the bridge as I strode to my new job. She wore all black and her hair was thin and yellow. Her skin was pale. I think if I were left to my own, without a squinting wife and drivers licence, I would be Katy and dead by next year.