Saturday, 27 October 2012

The loafer in the sofa

Here's a poem that stemmed from a free write inspired by one of Kellie Elmore's Free Write Friday prompts. You can read the free write below the poem, and there's a link to Kellie's website below that, where appeared the image prompt - an old, abandoned sofa.

The loafer in the sofa

Does the sofa in the bar
groan inwardly at sight of he
who would park his arse and sit
on its horsehair padded seat
next its cushions and its throw?

Does it sigh, bemoan its lot
in those stretching leather tones
as the weight of Mr. Jones
is transferred from the floor,
an intrusive, heavy foe?

Would it suffer him unmoved,
outward show of restful stance,
while he fidgets as he sits,
or implement the thought,
I'll dispose of him, who'd know?

Would you say it was revenge
for the stretch marks and the scuffs
as the whole of Mr. Jones
was ingested with a burp,
leaving nothing left to show?

So there you stand or more like crouch you battered old and smelly couch that’s seen better days and nights as well aye sure there's tales that you could tell but more than that we could only surmise from a look at your damp decaying décolletée that droops and dangles over the edge of your worn cushions and your mock velvet brushed pile effect and your inlaid ebony armrests that seem to be all that's holding you together in a sad embrace as your wire springs protrude from deep within like the ribs of a spavined mare that's seen or felt more like too many spurs and on that theme your horse hair innards are seeping out and drying to dust like some sort of organic iron filings staining and discolouring that's left of your fabric with a red and brown mess half hidden under the debris of fragments of half moth eaten old newspaper sheets and paint flaked from the ceiling the ubiquitous white spots and dandruff like flakes that makes me think no way I'd ever risk sitting on an armrest let alone in your lap for somehow I think I'd feel your dampness seep up through my jeans as if I'd been sitting there drunk and fallen asleep and pissed myself and now what's this on a closer inspection your very skin appears to be alive with a myriad or so it would seem tiny creatures as they writhe and stream under the surface causing ripples and waves unseen causes until there he goes a wee brown mouse he keeks his whiskered nose above the parapet of a cushion and I realise he's made his home in your guts and he's raising a family of rodent squatters whether you like it or not and he's set to stay put for generations maybe fucking and shitting and nibbling and sniffing and birthing and weaning unless you collapse under him and disintegrate completely but there's a few years left in you yet with your velveteen sheen of grey and black stained green despite the ongoing consumption of your vitals by natural erosion not hindered at all by the hole in the ceiling that lets in the rain for it's not enough for you to have been abandoned by your master you've been forsaken by the very abode in which you live as if your home once his castle is now the place of your incarceration your desecration your desperation but hardly life expectation eh? No, not much call for that nor for anyone to risk a hand between your seat and back to find the proverbial threepenny piece or maybe a tanner for who knows what mysterious creatures lurk behind the façade of your once arse-polished exterior that incautious hand followed its likely by an arm gobbled up to the shoulder and I'd be gone, lost forever pulled within a nightmare land the worst amalgamation of Narnia and never never landing back on my feet as they struggled waving in a whirlpool of frantic exertion behind my disappearing torso as I'm lost forlorn and devoured by the menace lurking in the room that gave every appearance of being nothing but an old decaying settee but in one incarnation of reality vivid enough for me anyway was and is the preying suite of three piece environmental disasters the unholy trinity of the sofa and the seat with it's throw as a shroud and as I vanish for now all I can hear is the satisfied smack of three-seated lips.

(Written for Kellie Elmore's Free Write Friday, you can get the link for it here.)