The Lilac-Patterned Institution

Fostrup’s biography pours out on phlegm-
coloured snowscapes while I watch the steaming
semis. She’s remembering bismuth from
poor chemistry lessons and draped in this bling
of fairy lights. No one can escape such
cholera of the mind. Watching her pant
Colgate breaths above her bacon sandwich
shows Droylsden is parole from life. Why can’t
we neck on doorsteps before the grief thing?
Pitted between the sandbanks of new building
and the weekend theft of Samsung pressies
she’s hooked up to some post-millennial
milk and honey, cheating the horses arses
out of tax and all things matrimonial.