This is the sort of thing that has those bitches snickering behind their hands--
I burned the bed, including the one in my mind,
but I took one of them outside first,
so I'm not as rash as they say.
I have shelves and shelves of poetry--
my own and everybody else's.
"My love is like a red, red rose," like this, and like that,
What a load of crap.
Now I sleep on the couch, in case there's suddenly something good on,
or I feel like steeping myself in a trash novel all night
like some sort of nocturnal tea bag.
I'm always brewing something.
So fuck you, you with the soft lips; you with the strong arms.
Here's the list, you're on it, get lost.
At 3 a.m. there was a show about dinosaurs.
They had shrimpy brains and big spikes and some had clubs on their tails.
Half of them were girls, all they cared about was
laying eggs and eating.
I watched that shit until the sun came up.
My friend says, "You could still meet somebody."
It's true, I could.
Here I am flying through space with my big bright tail.
Here I fly, with my shitty track record and my poems and my passion.
Here I come, down through the atmosphere,
not looking for you, but on my way anyway.
for Sunny's "sleep and insomnia" prompt at Toads. I love to sleep. I never have insomnia.