Selling Mum’s house to a Buy-to-let investor by Freda Bloggs

I am not a silent poet

She died.

A working class

a premature fat flabby high carb bad teeth death

there were cigarettes involved

(Here of course, you may sadly shake your head)

The debris from the jobs she’d had proliferated till the house

burst crap

bled rubbish like a moist grey tumour

some bastard nicked the gate

some other fucker tapped the house at night a wanting skins

the walls were wilting

all while my brother slept on in his spaceship/pit shrunk weasel-eyed with hiding from his zero hours

we had to sell the house.

some flash twat with a wodge of wonga

snapped it up to turn it into flats.

So he’ll sit pretty

in his Audi – fletching through the housing benefit he’ll get

for four skint addicts battery farmed instead

and tut about the dough-faced layabouts he ‘keeps’ with taxes

and he’ll vote Tory.

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