The Day in Bed

I wake up late, convinced that today I will spend the day in bed

The bed is filled with an infinite supply of pillows in varying sizes
a feather duvet
a torn-covered book documenting the rise of punk culture
in the US
in the early 70s
and beyond.

there is the spilled remnants of egg fried rice with too much soy sauce
ground into the duvet cover like dried blood

there are classic alcoholic stains
and sticky patches

the pillowcases are colouring a sour autumn yellow
in corners which have seen
faces buried
mouths open
gasping drooling snoring dreaming


In this bed I have drank endless cups of tea
read the collected dog-eared works of Dostoyevsky
and taught myself to fly around the thirteen moons of Jupiter.

I have died a thousand fiery closed-door broken-stair black-eyed deaths
I have swigged supermarket wine at dawn,
at dusk
at 5am.
whispering the secrets of the universe.


Today I will stay in bed until the light stops seeping in.

I will spread the windows wide and listen to the cluttering
of recycle bins
the inane afternoon swearwords of neds
car doors which open and close

I will peer towards the neighbours empty windows and wonder how they are spending their days
treading the moist October pavements
and I will think about roundabouts in children’s playgrounds
queues in brightly lit supermarkets
traffic attendants whose pages smudge in the rain
trouser hems which soak up puddles and spend the rest of the day
expelling them around ankles.

Things which do not concern you when you are in bed
with the infinite pillows


Perhaps by the time night arrives, pounding on the windows
like a motel room whore,
I will be tired of the bed.
Perhaps I will pull myself out of the liferaft and take a walk outside,
with the rain and the noises and the nighttime and the magic
or perhaps I will turn over,
tug covers
fall asleep
and take a trip to the eleventh Jupiter moon.