In the living room (Poem)

I am a native of sofa land
the cushions hold
the petty pelf of the pockets
who come out
of the dark caves
when unearthed by
month-end archaeologists
with tight finances.

The velvet fabrics
flog the oval bodies
which were moulded
by the slothy sittings.

Thick pillows form
the cradle of liberty
with some butt perfume
coming out at the crossroads
of division.

— Drunken Wood.

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