Your wife drives off to teacher’s college. You snuffle your son’s soft yellow scalp, leave saliva to soak into his head, look through the job ads while he sleeps, fallen in the hallway.


Your wife defrosts the placenta and boils it up. You tell your parents and son it’s beef stew.


Your mates own jet skis, first, then boats. All you own is an accounting franchise, a son and a brand new, delirious baby girl. You kiss her lips, swallow her drool.


You nibble the hangnail on your daughter’s finger and she tells you you’re gross, Daddy.  You tell her she’s the gross one, for eating scabs, and punish her with armpit-tickles.


Your wife becomes Head Of Department. You pay off your credit cards. You hurry to bed. For the first time in eight years, you slurp the juices from her mango pussy and she moans.


Your stepmum dies. Your son finds you crying in the bathtub and licks your tears away.


Your dad’s brain starts to unfasten. Your blow on his cup of tea. He hides inside his robe, frightened of microbes flowing out of your lungs.


Your daughter grows a watermelon in her stomach, then one day she bursts open and her husband bear-hugs you. What comes out of her is only half-you.


Your son is spattered across a midnight motorway. The motorbike you told him he shouldn’t buy is 300 metres away. Your son’s voicemails remain on your cellphone, and you feed your ears twice a day.