The Serial

"christ i need a wank" muttered collin
Wafting farts with a back issue of jaynus
The bed-sit was ten foot by three foot six
And housed three bachelors of diverse, taste, age and conduct
It was littered with old football programmes
The only window was always shut owing to it's being stuck by layer upon layer of gloss paint
The smell of rancid brown ale pungent chip wrappings and overflowing ash-trays
Fused with the natural secretions of the three into a nauseous corporate
He's always fucking her on the floor discovered kevin
As tiny avalanches of plaster peppered his ice cream
"maybe they're having a scrap" said burt
The smart one
And as the mopeds - rasped off to the seaside
Yvonne looked to the trees
And her stomach turned."