Littered with dirty knickers surrounding the small single bed

Emulsified woodchip, singular layer, outlines the shape of the head

 

Snagged flannelette, stained cotton sheets; quills in the quilt hypodermically sharp

Secretions are smeared on the nest of this bedding; trails of tears are quickly absorbed

 

Borderland door is daubed in hot red, black marker pen cites I am a Rock

Asserting rebellious lack of regret, the notion of friends is discarded

 

Inside the window, engraved in the ice, an etching declaims, ‘just fuck off and die’

Safe in the knowledge it can be removed, forestalling the promise of violence

 

A vomit-stained rug sits quietly by an erupting ashtray of dog-ends and debris

Occasionally, paraffin perfumes this room on nights of illness in winter

 

Stereo set-up claims pride of place, surround-sound achieved with speakers four-square

A cut-out Marc Bolan looks down from the wall, and Jimmy plays Gibson guitar (twin neck)

 

Bare-chested Bon singing cock rocking songs, strides proudly across the small room

While Janis in pearls understands how I am, keeps me sane with her Little Girl Blue

 

Frottage is practiced in this little room, hot breaths and open-mouthed kisses

Capturing scents, aromatic and fresh, of blossoming wantonness, eager ejects

 

Virginity’s lost, in silence and tension, the teenage erection spent up in a second

Snatching at moments of lonesome endeavour, underneath the scratchy old quilt

 

It still looks the same, almost a museum - I am a Rock is still quoted verbatim

Memories haunt, loneliness lingers, taunting and chaos still hang in the air

 

Such a tiny cold room, to hold all that youth, to trap and to capture those years

I mentally chalk my goodbyes on the walls, and kick the door shut one final time