Beds from a Backpack

Note: This poem is the results of a trip I recently took to Europe.
There I backpacked for two months and stayed in hostels.
For those who don't know, a hostel is like a hotel where you share
the room with anywhere from three to twenty fellow travellers.

A bed in an overrun room in a seedy part of town
with tainted woolen sheets tailored for a dwarf,
steam and heat creeping into my pores
as filmy sweat is flowing out,
while solicitous and snoring englishmen dream of pussy.

A bed in the rustic attic of an ancient house,
with a cozy feel in between enveloping fluffy sheets,
sewed with care by a peddling babushka,
a victim of a night terror of childhood molestation awakens,
whom stoops near my bed
and drops their pants
to unknowingly unleash a stream of piss on the floor,
that will sit in quiet company for the remainder of the night
till its owner says innocent good mornings to me when the sun rises.

A bed with mattress and pillows lumpier than Nana's gravy
while the din of some eastern capital's nightlife rages on,
and the bed bugs battle for supremacy underneath my sheets.

A bed where I boozily lie in a coma
till I wake up admist a barrage of symptons;
crippling headache, pulsing skull, swerving vision, furious stomach
while light is alarmingly blasted in a room
as desolate and empty
as I can sanely bare.

A bed propped outside a fantastic beer tent,
raucous polka music broadcasting,
passing merrymakers pointing,
as I'm cuddling up next to a pile of vomit,
with thick strands of acrid soupy waste
descending
from my mouth
onto my shirt
as I curse the optomist's glee
and the cynic's seed that's been planted.

A bed in the loft of a airy penthouse,
lying with two other companions snuggled near my side,
listening while wide-eyed awake
to the symphony being issued forth
from the host of sleeper's noses down below.

A bed containing only me and a room containing only my bed,
Parisian night howling and glimmers outside my commanding perch,
while in an adjoining building within eyeshot
a couple puts on a show meant for two
but graciously given to a lonely lovestruck third.

A bed, engineered with a dull metronome pulse,
as the lights pass by calmly,
and the bed passes by endearingly,
parting a sea of fields, villages, and cities
to the next destination,
all deathly still in the yellow glow that paints them
and the shadows the dead of night gives for contrast.

A bed, awake, unseen but seeing,
longing to touch and be touched
by a gazing girl with poetry in her eyes,
as she smokes a farewell cigarette
from the window sill of our room
that grants a lover's vision of the illuminated city
in the valley far below.

A bed with a warm body (At last!) that snores and coos,
breathes and sighs upon my chest
while its pubic bush caresses my leg as gently as fine velvet,
and the peacefulness that the city-at-night is delivering
from large windows flanked by flowing curtains.

A bed that violently wobbles back and forth
to a climatic squeeky crescendo,
careless of any bystanders
that might need to get up early in the morning.

A bed found after an epic quest,
preceded by a hallucinogenic night with a blurry tracer
of scintallizingly colorful people and sights,
concluded with a "finally" whispered from tired and bruised lips.

A bed, a mattress on the floor,
in a room too small for one
but rented to three
while yet another victim of sleepwalking
relieves themselves in the room's sink a foot from the mattress,
with beggars luck no sprinkle begot from the drunken stream!