Why do I want to sleep? Is it the dreaming?
Aren’t dreams as real as life’s dreamlike seeming
And dreams more pleasant, and more uniquely mine?
Who wouldn’t rather sleep than listen to assholes all the time?
But sleep is not desire and I miss desire, too.
You are not a dream, are you?
That hankering in the blood under the sun
For what is real, the dream and the real all one,
I very much want that, too.
I will never forget when you said yes
And allowed me to nightly press
My hardness against your softness,
My brute and blind and stupid prick
Against you, wise and politic.
Did that joy only seem
To be real, like a dream?
Yes, yes, I have to say yes;
It was a dream, because it’s gone now, and you were not the one,
And do we confess
Desire like that beneath the real sun?