Makes loves to me. Keeps me awake
and very much tired — that’s all the
fucking I am getting for centuries.
My bed partner continues to roll up
its leaves up into my anus; and around
my eyes — like the tendrils of a money
plant wiggling its leaves around
a branch or the planks of windows.
It berates me. It sucks up
something from me. Caresses me.
Makes loves to me. Keeps me awake
and very much tired — that’s all the
fucking I am getting for centuries.
Now my eyes are tired. And my phone
is tired, of being touched by my fingers.
The world is tired of snooping into
my life; and yet nothing I have. Except
for an outward look of decency.
Inside me,
tendrils of insomnia are pumping
and dumping their death
inflicting sperms — loaded cum
inside my many selves. Like
immortal children of immortal death.
Born out of my bed-partner,
Insomnia.
