RuKsaK

I was staring at my bookcase long enough to realise it was me.
------
I launched the brick with an arching arm. It scudded into Greggo’s head and more blood than I’ve ever seen come from a head sprinted down his face from the clicked open fissure across his skull. I felt that jag of sacredness when a ten year breaks a window multiplied by a hundred. Turned 180 degrees and shot home leaving Greggo to history - I hoped. It never came back to me, but is squeezed somewhere between killing a mouse and losing five quid in year ten on a seldom visited shelf.
------
He sprinted past the yellow cab, pounced from the street after a quick glance at the people around, jetted into the air, someone said:
’Whoo - baaaad outfit!’
He caught the girl and he said:
’Don’t worry I’ve got you.’
’You’ve got me? Who’s got you?’
And then he caught the falling helicopter as well!

A puddle of joyous tears continues to collect from me at this moment in the film and sits somewhere in the middle of me:
’A friend.’
------
‘Send him with a list or he’ll cock it up otherwise.’
’It’s only two bags of chips and two fish.’
’Aye and you’ll get it wrong like you always do.’
’I got it wrong once. I don’t even want to go.’
’You’ll go and you’ll go with a list - because you’re bloody daft.’

I stomped to the fish and chip shop, popped the hand-gnawed note on the counter, returned home.
’Come on. Bloody eat yours.’
’I don’t bloody want it.’
’What did you say?’
’I said I do not fucking want it because I am not fucking hungry.’

A whack didn’t reprise my appetite, but my lips ran into my mouth. A slice of malice gets slapped on the shelf driven there by weekly forced charity. Cheers Dad – you’re a sturdy volume.
------
My kiddy cock lying in the wind having giggles circle it for twelve seconds told me I’d never be Brad Pitt. Saved me a teenage decade of delusion. All the giggles came not from it being a soft piece of fuck-equipment, as it was not then, but because this pudenda was a Yin of their Yang. And, Yin and Yang always kill or piss themselves at each other.
------
Just four epic specks from my tenth year. The people, bits and gristle in them bound and owned by me. All my own cuts, slices, arranged in confused order. Then stashed in a text of myself. And, you weren’t there, you didn’t hoard them, they didn’t turn out to be you and you’ll never comprehend it as I do. Thousands of moments from a year, machining me and my shell - my bookcase, full of myselves.

Unreadable to others and no doubt to you.
------
18,000+ Carpenters next.

Sunday, February 06, 2005

10,000 Carpenters