Joanna's kitchen has not much floor to speak of.
Spandrels of murky sky peer out from between blacksack and washpile clouds.
The lid of the swing-bin is busted, and spattered with the blood of dead teabags.
Those that didn't make it huddle the base like forlorn little turds.
The dog tries to fuck your leg, and evacuates itself with regular impunity.
What isn't spilled beer is probably piss, and not all of the forlorn little turds are made of tea.
Her tumble-dryer door is a pyrex bowl, held in place with parcel tape and improbable good fortune.
Fag ends, bean juice, and penicillium notatum fight for kingship of the crockery castle.
The worksurfaces sulk beneath, barely hinged doors hanging like slack jaws.
The rust rimmed refridgerator bears a placard reading HOME SWEET HOME.
'And the kids are never sick', she says,
'the kids are never sick.'
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