barn and jupiter
Another from the other night. Still struggling trying to put one foot ahead of the other. It is my history, I swear, trying to bite me. Somehow I want to put it in the past where it belongs. I was taught to honour it when it doesn’t deserve honour or reverence. Those trees seemed thick when I was young. The bush vast and undiscovered. It wasn’t long before I knew every square inch of the pit. The drunks who came over the hill to drink Royal Red and fight and fuck, dragging their hope less kids along. My parents gave them money to keep going at it. It makes you wonder. It is too easy to say that’s the way things were. Alan and I made forts in the trees camouflaged with branches of fir. We watched the carnage straight up. Stole their wine when they passed out. Stole dirty magazines from behind the book shop or from my older brothers room. Girls came down to look at our magazine collection. We made them show us their tiny breasts for trade. Once they turned the pages they knew we had seen it all before and better. That’s what they thought, but it wasn’t true. Most only came for a look once, but some came back and the ante was upped. We learned from the drunks and Penthouse forum. We were eight years old and well on our way.