When they find his body – The Fat in Black,
forever attired for his own funeral – the man
himself will be long gone. As he always was.
Interred in the second-hand wingback chair
with torn upholstery – decorative Spartans
cutting loose with their xiphoi desperate
to free themselves of this dead weight –
unfinished gin to his left, read and unread
books to the right, headphones skew-whiff,
the brain will have ceased its silent singing
of The Streets of Laredo. The only trace of living
being the salt stains on his shirt.

Brett Evans drinks in his native north Wales. He is co-editor of Prole. Laughing is his favourite thing.

Sloth shits once a week.
He reasons there has to be a series in that.
And if the focus be that one turd, Sloth
insists there’s no space for those two
Geordie gobshites or that egotistical
Pied Piper for pouting teens twat
whose haircut not even the Amazonian
rain could run off.

Monday to Friday, Sloth will snooze and scratch,
narration will describe his unique ecosystem
to the disinterest of viewers in the build up to Saturday’s
equivalent of entertainment’s colonoscopy
when Sloth is sure he can cash in on the phone votes
– in or out?

Brett Evans lives, writes, and drinks in his native north Wales. He is co-editor of Prole  and his debut poetry pamphlet The Devil’s Tattoo was published by Indigo Dreams in 2015, available here.