Beds

Feather-weighted by leagues of slumber old beds reinventing themselves as hammocks for the distilling of sweat and foam into an archive of dreams. Sprung mattress’ sag like spavined camels, or twist days and nights together into sheets stuffed with mental laundry. Some beds have fallen comatose, Only to wilt on the branches of time like boneless owls. Beds keep their history recorded in brain-stems, of a thousand bodily impressions; underneath some, old horror movies, and pornographic clips are laid to rest. A young boy jumps up and down on his bed. One day he jumps very high, when he lands he is a teenager. By his side a young girl (both), not knowing what to do next, until the bed begins to whisper to them.