The Norrises sicken me.
The dad combs his hair back without swagger, smug.
Prim and proper- a proper pervert underneath.
He talks on the phone without hands, obnoxious. His mouth a cavern of acrid attitude.
He thinks he deserves more life than Joe, or Linda who works on the tills.
I flew inside the house once, let my geometric legs land on the wallpaper, spied him through my kaleidoscope eye.
He eats flies for breakfast, in a bowl, and he cups his balls under the table.
The kid’s got no chance – he’s gonna grow up to be a right little fly-eating prick.