the old roadie

the only thing upright in the flat
is Jake’s old Gibson
tall and sunburst proud amongst
the general carnage
the scattered mags
bags and bottles
a kid’s crayon portrait
on yellowing sugar-paper
a monster with loopy hair
and big scrawly paws
stomping on a line of kisses
up on the wall
an island of shine against the damp
two framed photos:
Jake with his arm round Lemmy, and
Jake on the bonnet of a Ford Capri
the sun engoldening his hair
whilst he sits, one knee crooked
fagged hand draped
staring at the lens
with a slack mouthed, low-lidded
wha-tha-fuck-you-want expression
three denimed girls
out of focus behind him
smiling, their heads together
‘Cool!’ I say
turning back to the bed
pulling on my gloves
‘Y’know what I really need right now?’ he says
‘No. What d’you need?’
he chuckles past his tooth
unclips the buckle
of his jeans
and, bridging as best he can,
reveals an urgent press
of iliac crest
beneath the skin
‘A little Dr D’ he says
‘Nothing fancy.
Just a coupla fingers’

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