Sleeping in rollers

I can say what I want now
without tact, or feeling
Like my tongue is held in a padlock
and you’ve thrown out the key.

I can work in the office
till the cleaners have gone
and I spook myself with
my own noise.
I can stagger home
without rushing,
and not find a multitude
perishing from a famine
that I had imposed.

I can eat nothing
but leftovers from the weekend,
or spicy, deep fried food
that will give me spots,
and guzzle anything liquid
that I can find
to douse the burn.

I can natter by email,
roll out spin on Facebook,
and stalk on Twitter
till my mind is mush;
till arthritic fingers
grind to a halt from
tapping dyslexic cryptic,
the couch dipped
from the weight of
unshifting buttocks.

I can watch rubbish telly
in mismatched jammies,
and no bra,
till every programme
has a small person
making large, mesmerising gestures
in the lower right corner.

Then I can fall into bed,
unmade since that morning,
and sleep in rollers,
my make-up-less face
plastered with the latest
glow-in-the-dark promise
in regenerative goo.

The only witness to
this fresh emancipation
is my proverbial new buddy:
the fly on the wall.

And he doesn’t care.