It was over uncleaned kitchens and unpaid zlotys,
I think. Not sure. I only understood “kurwa”.
The argument between you and those two bottom-jockeys,
your flatmates, roared like a furnace
as I swigged from a bottle of apple and beetroot juice, hoping
it might be some wise, cloth-headed babushka’s cure for
a hangover, before grimacing, “Christ! Are they joking?
What’s next, banana and turnip?”
As Rocky rollicked a spitting cat down the passage,
you grabbed the leash with a “Fuck it, let’s go to the forest”.
Out of the door, past the sandbag- and kitten-strewn garage,
the three of us tumbled out onto the lane.
Yards overhead spun an ambulance, chopping and thrashing
its way through the air, round and round like an uncertain tourist.
“Have they come for your flatmates?” I wondered. “Perhaps they’ve
been pushing
bananas or turnips in holes that cause pain.”
The neighbourhood spilled out. A nearby wedding
burst the banks of its champagne-filled marquee.
The fat metal locust hovered a while, then came gliding
down onto a grassless field.
Dust storm! Everywhere the air turned brown
and gritty. Dust in cake, champagne and tea
as the doctor-pilot fluttered down.
Dogs barked and children squealed.
A greyhound wrestled with Rocky in the heather
and all I heard was “Kurwa! Kurwa! Kurwa!”
I cackled almost till my tits bled.
“Their dog’s called Kurwa!” I cried.
“No, they’re saying ‘Korbi’”, you sighed.
“Nobody calls their dog Shithead.”
