Writing in Bed

Writing in Bed
__________________

“He yawned.
There was no
air in the room.”
—Paul Bowles
The Sheltering sky

Writing in Bed

I forgot the dream—
but I’ll remember it later
or it will remember me

Here I am yawning—
all stretched out in my bed
like Miss Marcel Proust

It’s free writing this way—
just a notebook and ballpoint
Tangier touch and go

I can’t seem to wake up—
too much swank Madame Bowles
hashish & long hookah nights

Writing in Bed 2

For some reason—
I thought it was necessary
To kill off my loverboy

Getting rid of him—
Rather than the male protagonist
Who was supposedly me

I’d already been thru—
Risky open heart surgery
One death experience was enough

No thanks I said—
To Bernardo Bertolucci—
I’d rather be Debra Winger

Writing in Bed 3

Everything depended on—
The vast Sahara desert and
Handsome young Ahmed

Actually I killed him off—
Every night in bed if you
Like know what I mean

He was very good at it—
He felt strongly impelled
To survive each homicide

Such counterfeit deaths—
Had many narrative possibilities
Imposed on my writings

Writing in Bed 4

I’d never written—
A sarcastic novel before
As surreal as this one

It was like “Cold Point”—
Ahmed young enough to be
My troublesome truant son

It was like “Allal”—
The Snake Boy story about
This kid who goes reptoid

Like “The Delicate Prey”—
That SM story in the desert
Buried up to his neck