Stumble into a crowded haze:
searching and seeking fun times…
DRUGIE LUSTY SEXUALLY ALCOHOLIC EUPHORIALS
skinny jeans suffocating
rolled up notes
ruined in these ruins…
But we want this.
& puffy scars.
Dozen pills popping
dawn to dusk sipping,
wars & weapons
shooting and stabbing at rules
to pass the time.
Do we even care?
I don’t care
don’t care about you.
Taught by my father
who was never there
to abandon and run,
evade and suppress.
This is the life I want, I preach!
Striving for Club 27
Live fast die young,
I don’t wanna live.
Don’t even care!
No compassion here.
Pull the trigger on yourself,
On stage is a boy holding a weathered book and a pencil that is almost finished. He is sitting down with his legs crossed and is dressed in rag-like clothing.
All I have is this book and this pencil. I mean it. That’s all I have. Well I lie, I have these clothes too but they aren’t much anyway. Look for yourself! Holes everywhere. Much like my life… Missing pieces, ripped edges, filthy marks… It’s quite funny actually that all I have is this book and pencil. (He chuckles.) I can’t write. Or read. Or count very high. But that’s me. I can draw though. Look here! (Standing. He shows the audience a picture he drew – it’s a simple stick family) That’s what I imagine my family looked like. (Pause. He seems a little sad by mentioning family.)
When I said this is all I have I meant it. I have nobody. My parents died when I was still a baby. I have no brothers and sisters – well none that I know of at least. I was raised by an old lady, she had a face like my clothes. That’s all I remember about her – I never knew her name. She left when I was seven. She went to the clinic – she’ll be back. I’ve been on my own since. It’s always been natural for me to find food for myself. I manage. I think I should be bigger by now though… I’m sixteen. I think I’m sixteen at least. When I said that old lady left when I was seven, well that’s how old I think I was. I don’t actually know.
I don’t count days very well… I just draw a picture for every day that I don’t get hurt by them… I haven’t drawn many pictures. When I say ‘them’ I mean the guys who sleep under the bridge. They hurt me whenever they see me with money. And they take the money to buy this green stuff and smoke it. It smells horrible. Sometimes they sniff this white sand. But that’s not often. I just try avoid them, but they always find me. If I have something to give them, I know I won’t be hurt that much.
They also call me names. They tell me I’m worthless scum who can’t even read. But I know that I’m not worthless. Just because I can’t read or write or count properly doesn’t mean I can’t think. I’m good at thinking. I think all day about my parents. I know they loved me. Just like the old lady with the dirty face. (Pause. The emotion shifts to very sad.) I lied when I said that all I remember is her face… I also remember she used to hug me and I felt warm. I want to feel warm again… Why did she have to leave? I want her back. She’ll stop them beating me. She still hasn’t come back from the clinic. Maybe she’s waiting for me there… Or maybe she’s, she’s… (Pause at the realisation she is probably dead.) No! (He cries. He then rips out the page of his family from his book and crumples it up in anger, frustration and sheer desperation.) Why?
Young poet with the blonde hair!
She had this interesting affair…
He got really angry at her ways,
she didn’t care – so she says.
She cheated on him with her art
because her art would never cheat her.
It gave her more joy to hold a brush of thought
and a palette filled with colourful thoughts,
unlike his monochromatic personality.
She can paint her fantasy with words
and not be abused by him.
Young poet with the blonde hair!
Everyone walks past just to stare…
She’s so happy now with her life,
it’s all gone now: the hate, the strife!
Did you hear about that boy?
I did – he’s so young!
I wonder what caused it…
I heard his mother didn’t love him.
But why do something so horrific?!
Maybe she did it to him when he was small…
He’s on steroids now.
I blame the father…
He left when he was little apparently…
I wonder why…
I heard it was because of the child.
So maybe it started then even!
But I just think of the poor mother.
I’ve seen the bruises.
This is too terrible.
Better not get involved.
It’ll go away.
It always does.
She just wants to be touched,
have someone reach out and grab her…
Make her feel like she’s worth the pain…
Let her know she can make someone
feel that way.
She puts herself out there;
she knows one thing:
she isn’t ready.
But everyone else is doing it!
Maybe this is what it means to grow up…
She doesn’t know but she will,
she will because she’ll be hurt:
and she will be scarred;
and she will be damaged;
and she will be broken;
But that’s the only way
someone like her will learn.
Your voice sounds like a bark;
Your footprints are dirty paws.
Your fur is dropping everywhere…
Put your tongue elsewhere!
I’m not one of your fleas.
Drool over another,
I’m not your piece of meat,
I’m nobody’s scrap,
Use your claws on your pack –
Tame your hounds.
Teach them manners plus a trick!
I know you know how to catch
So here, catch this message:
Go lick your dirty wounds elsewhere,
You selfless hound!
I don’t want your rabies –
Go dig up the bones of your brothers!
Don’t think I’ll be there;
I’m not your shelter.
Don’t try ask for scraps.
Take your howls to hell,
You mutant mutt!