the night i was ****** by my pillow
the moon watched through cheap IKEA curtains
like a government inspector checking boxes
my pillow had grown teeth somewhere between
midnight and the last beer

reality is what happens when memory
stops pretending to be polite about it
the pillow knew this better than me
its feather guts spilling philosophy
onto sheets that had seen better wars

no punctuation needed when you're busy
existing between the real and the maybe
like a cat who knows too much about
taxes and expenses to bother with mice
anymore