Fucking Jeremy Kyle (what you don't see in Tesco's) By Beth McGann

the thompsons are not quite in their right minds as if they had spent a long time in the hospital, their horse-high ambition destined for the knackers she with the birds nest hair tuts into the living room swaying with tesco bags from the dangerous undergrowth of bargain-hunters with sharpened elbows terry whips his feet off the dogs changes channel, quickly - she likes a bit of jeremy, she does (pushing under the settee with his foot the ashtray evidence of the unholy alliance between the snuff peddlar and he who shoots at kids)

madison beetles naked across the carpet to bash dolls heads together in the corner, when she is thirteen she will bathe her red ribbons in salt water bored with ritalin, reece, attempting to light some touch paper, takes a candle to the faded curtains in his sister's room no-one's seen her for, oh a year now. she with the birds nest hair occasionally, dreaming of creamy afternoons prays to the crucified, the crucified do not answer. one monday, in a silence unmeasured she listens to the forecast and drives to the bridge.

Copyright ©  Beth McGann 2008

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