The Lay-Z-boy

In the codependent loungeroom
urgent with blood-brothers,
favours are extracted weighed packaged and distributed.

Thugs bugs drugs shrugs hugs pugs abound,
 the hostess,
 a vending machine
covered with human skin
and with glass teddy bear eyes
 impeaches.

The timer, set before you entered
by an unspecified player
dares you:
make a girdle from time,
stretch it over your head,
flatten out those stubborn bulges where your conscience used to be

The carpets snigger,
patterned with memories
bilious with the dna
of the fallen.

Who were beaten, who were swept,
who were cleaned.

All day suckers.
Fuzzy.
You will come back later
Finish it tomorrow
Let her know
or just climb the hill of preposterous
lies
because you have no way left anymore to feel good

except for forcing yourself into the pockets of the kind
until they cry
until they scream
until you dip your finger in their blood and write
Fuck you
On them

And leave
saying “Now write that out a hundred times before I get back”.

Behind the door she waits
Like Saipan
for your return.

Everyone has to come back
to retrieve their height
Weight
Girth
Shoes
Hat
Opinion
Birthright

 How that went is a matter for another day
Let me write it down for you

Show me
 She writes it again,
Mercy mercy, mercy mercy.
 Potato from the vegetable bin doing double duty as the silencer
You never see brisket in the butcher anymore,
once it was everywhere,
Back in the day.

Nods. Mercy me. Mercy.