We’ll Get Stoned on the Couch if it Takes All Night

The scarred couch

We stripped him
ran a knife through his belly
shook the treasure out:

xxxxxxxgold coins

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxguitar picks

xxxxxxmisshapen cutlery

Ransacked his memories
bar coasters bearing more than one woman’s name:


xxxxxxcall me!

Forced his rigid form
through the narrow doorway
in darkness, hushing each other
so the neighbours wouldn’t hear.
Ten years of dust in our fingernails
leaving a crumb-trail behind us

xxxxxxxxxof condom wrappers

xxxxxsoy fish

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxand more guitar picks
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxget them get them

Cockroaches made refugee
Italian leather in tatters
gutted, we laid its carcass
in front of someone else’s house
then tiptoed back upstairs
to confront the vinyl imposter
still in its bubble-wrapped bondage.

Impassive, it watched
as we argued about screwdrivers
our sweat speckling the carpet

xxxxxas if


xxa watering

But we got it upright
plonked our arses on it
drank wine, smoked weed
in silence; co-conspirators
in a breathless meantime.

Note: the title is taken from a line in a pantoum by Peter Minter, ‘Wallpaper Codicil‘.

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