at 8 years old i killed my cousin. an arrow piercing through his jaundiced
yellow fffforehead. he died of panic, flapping on the ground like a bird. the real target. an apple on his head, was used to make apple crisps. thinly sliced. and
grilled in the oven. i blamed the act on a passing hobo.
at 8 and 3/4 i made a death mask from the steam cleaned front portion of my great grandfathers skull which i had dug up earlier that summer. sawn with a fret saw and tied to my face through the eye sockets with bright white elastic cord i terrorized –
the local supermarket.
at 9 i was squashed in my seat by a large woman in a red velvet dress. as i forcibly peered out the window of the bus, wedged and unable to avert my gaze
i witnessed a small dog
crushed under the wheels of a slow runaway steamroller and changed into the
beautiful simplicity of a
on hot black tar. this awoke my love for art and colour. as the other passengers screamed, i cried a muffled bravo!
at 9 and a half i watched in awe as my action man which i had thrown into the monkey enclosure was tortured and eventually delimbed by a blue faced mandril. a scene which
i played over and over in my
i relished the 60 foot monkey role, wreaking havoc on my sisters toys with a face painted with some blue emulsion purloined from
my fathers shed.
at ten i pushed an old lady onto the railway track.
at eleven i stole flowers from the local park and gave them to a married
contortionist from the travelling circus who i had fallen in love with while watching her seal
herself in a small bright yellow suitcase with lime
green lining. she
and laughed at me
with her strongman husband.
that night i burned the big top
determined that i would only love incontortionates from here on in.
at twelve i smeared 5 jars of peanut butter on the neighbours white
cat. it struggled
to lick itself clean for three hours before passing out, its face held in a claggy
sugar-high rictus of brown glued frustration.