Blotches on walls and much dog
shit on pavements, hedges full of crisp bags,
chip bags and cans,
an eye at every window for the postman,
anyone at all, anything coming
or going, or unbecoming.
Ω
Well I couldn’t stop cringing,
stuffing his face
with Monster Munch, like totally impinging
on my personal space,
and when I said so he was like look here missus
this here’s a public bus.
Ω
An old fridge in the garden,
a boy showing his hard-on,
tracksuit bottoms pulled tight,
saying her tits were satellite
dishes, saying she burnt her ears on his thighs
with sullen eyes, sullen eyes, sullen eyes.
Ω
A flutter in the bookies and a fiver to put
before the wife. No football boots or
fresh fruit or computer
for the kids. No pay-per-view.
No suit
for a funeral, an interview.
Ω
Text sex, porno moans
in school corridors,
love rats on the floor
filming vajazzles on their phones.
Kylie’s a dog. Tracey’s a whore.
Ben has Simone groaning for his ringtone.
Ω
You queue and queue
for the intimidation of a too-
tidy desk, swanky office gear,
the bulletproof screen crystal clear.
Hello I’m here to kill you,
please sign here, here and here.
Ω
Don’t be sayin but e thinks e’s humungous.
On tha Viagra an then some, ah’m telling ya.
But sweaty balls. Fer Christmas e gave us
knickers that cut right inta
ma hole, an gave is fiancé Nigella
fuckin Lawson. Eh? Wha? Nah, she’s gorgeous.
Ω
Sigourney was down to her knickers and vest,
the alien about to spring, when the fucking doorbell rings.
No the repo, but the Green Party canvassing.
I said I like your manifesto, put it to the test.
Oh go for a while with no cash flow no tobacco no quid pro quo
no Giro no logo no demo no lotto no blow no go no go no go no no no