A Little Debt Recovery [Interlude] Between The Estates Double Murder And The Drug Bust

One of the Bailiffs has got his phone out
in the back, semi-pigsty, bedroom,
taking a picture of the dirty underwear
strewn across the cheaply carpeted floor
… whilst laughing openly and loudly.
The four children are with a neighbour,
as she begs and pleads for mercy…
it’s all bollocks, she knows the score,
it’s a ‘Distraction’ only, whilst Maureen
(her bestie since the Teenage Secure Unit)
grabs and hides whatever she can find.
The bog won’t flush in the slightest,
the Council keep sending text messages,
right before the appointed day to fix it,
and pushing the Repair forward in time
… it’s been eight weeks, and it stinks,
even though she’s been bucketing water,
like it’s still World War Two or something
… only it’s not World War Two, is it,
No Sir, it’s World War Fucking Three!
Her common-law husband, both brothers,
father, four uncles, every male cousin,
and two female ones as well, actually…
cannot help her because they’re in Prison.
They’ve moved her mam from next-door
to a ground floor flat seven miles away,
because she’s being eaten alive by Cancer
… it takes two buses, and half a day,
just to be able to cry in each others arms.
She’s banned from the nearest Food Bank
for fighting with that fucking scrote Tracy
over a steak and kidney Fray Bentos pie
… they both got nicked outside the church,
and she’s desperately crossing her fingers,
toes, and every other bit of her anatomy
that the Magistrates Court gives her Jail
[Suspended] instead of a fucking ‘FINE.’
‘Suicide’ is for the comfortable people
who’ve got too much time on their hands,
‘Life’ isn’t a ‘Gift’ it’s a fucking ‘Curse’
and when it’s finally her ‘Time’ to Die
and meet her sadistic, bastard Maker…
he’s gonna get the ‘Hammering’ of his life!

Paul Tristram is a widely published Welsh writer, who’s currently up to his elbows in Magic, and long may it remain this way. Read other articles by Paul, or visit Paul's website.