29. Dawn Breaks In The Roach Motel

Four bedrooms
five egos
six-packs half drunk
but still held together
by those circular plastic bands
that have doubled up
as handcuffs
on occasion.

The obligatory malfunctioning Frigidaire
containing the obligatory week-old Domino’s
a selection of Bud, JD, cheap wine, stale biscuits
and natural yoghurt for those fungal foes
and nothing else.

The living room is the centrepiece, obligatorily
smashed to smithereens and splinters
ashtrays like frozen fountains
dead ash in gun metal stasis
frozen on every silent surface
a sofa smiling with slash marks made
by one of four possible Puerto Rican dealers
a little slice of east side barrio life
transposed to Hollywood by a man
with a do-rag, a vest and a knife

spray-can calligraphy on all four walls
the ceiling and floors:
VINCE NEIL IS A CHICKENHAWK
LETS ZEPPELIN
I GOTTA PEE
ANACHY (sic) IN LA
with the ‘A’s encircled, naturally.