They'd Met at Dismaland

They'd met at Dismaland and didn’t shut up about it.
They took photos, took friends,
then promptly forgot about it,
blamed their last two on not getting the Buick he wanted,
the shoe horn she got,
spine caved in
halfway through her Rob,
(conceived in the gift shop).

He’s at Lidl now with a forty-one grand job and
an Audi
not yet
in the
shops.
His Jennifer sold stocks overseas and knew the square root of 5-7-6 with ease;
twenty-four-more grand where there came from,
another bonus breeze, jazz-band goodbye to that second mortgage,
to this silver thumb
that’s now dabbing up
the leftover silver lining sum
of just snorted off the washing machine,
confusing coke with limescale scum.

Their kids don’t get on.
Their friends moved on by pushier parents than themselves.
Their grades slipped after their eleven plus:
now twelve, jobless and fans of Kate Bush.

You’re The One they sing in colour blind madness.
They’re the blame they pin when the consensus swings by again,
tick boxes for the family of boxers battling boxing day with slurred Amens,
stick pictures of stock family poses over eighties garb and cats
cos they’re digging this tree up,
throwing it in the trash.

Throw a glass cloche over it and call it visual art,
alert the authorities
before they fall apart.