I hate the Norrises

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.

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