Idiot Braids on Parade

Idiot Braids on Parade

Look! Here’s idiot braids on parade

half saluting last night’s half mast,

slopping her breakfast curry

opposite, pulling tradepaper faces

over shit crock piss pot china;

she’s seen much better places

don’t doubt it; well he feigns

raised-arch eyebrows, complains

in quotes about her lack of taste.

Feints disinterest, wet wipes

his ancient jizz-chin grin clean

thinking chiz, fuck, and all of that

for just all of this poor piss

spattered slap-dosh warpaint,

plastered double quick, beads

click-clacker at every shake

him fast asleep while she awake

checks her phone and reckons

he’s too old for seconds and

won’t this night ever bloody end?

Elbows swift his pump primed

grasp away from her bare tits

for how slowly creeps a minute

and he’s glad she isn’t in it

ripping dreams, throwing shapes

pushing push-bars to escape

pouted weak selfies, every mirror

braid glitter-balling shimmers

throating food keeps her thinner

picking yesterday’s bones out of

last night’s fingered fish supper

careful wipe pudding bowl clean

flushed, his sweating bald dome

fuck knows it, now so getting late

swipe left like, swipe right hate

to suck tender pork through teeth

picking out hair, flicking her beef

pushing his balls up hills in relief

when the summit is finally reached.

See you later, some shit like that

and that tableful of pensioned off

next door waverers, tut-tutting

as if they hadn’t never seen the like,

hadn’t been up for all night rutting

stag-strutting their sagging horn

board banging from dusk to dawn

complain about roaring trade

beaded parades of idiot braids.