Sep 2013
[I’m not sure if you can]
call them “fantasies.”
I prefer “scatological reveries.”
Usually,
that small porthole of time
just before sleep comes—
that’s where I oversee my
little light bulb factory.
It churns out countless
watts of bright notions—
whose warm light
paints descriptions on still walls
& outlines what exactly it is
that I intend to do to you.
These temporary art forms
are incredibly specific—
down to the slightest detail.
[For example:
the amount of pressure I’d apply
as I sink my fingernails
into the bare skin
of your back.]*
Some nights I go to bed
with my windows open
& I imagine so loudly—
I’m sure the neighbors can hear.
I hope *[they have popcorn on hand.]
call them “fantasies.”
I prefer “scatological reveries.”
Usually,
that small porthole of time
just before sleep comes—
that’s where I oversee my
little light bulb factory.
It churns out countless
watts of bright notions—
whose warm light
paints descriptions on still walls
& outlines what exactly it is
that I intend to do to you.
These temporary art forms
are incredibly specific—
down to the slightest detail.
[For example:
the amount of pressure I’d apply
as I sink my fingernails
into the bare skin
of your back.]*
Some nights I go to bed
with my windows open
& I imagine so loudly—
I’m sure the neighbors can hear.
I hope *[they have popcorn on hand.]
© Bitsy Sanders, September 2013
