Childhood Extract

Imagine the weight of the air in that house which in the summer months would strangle you, wearing heated gloves. Tough luck. A gulf of emotion that is always a week ahead; trying to claw back a sense of permanence as it lingers in a cold sweat. Windows crack with discomfort; the place is dead. All of those whispering memories that remind me of my crippled crown an accolade of atrocities; dripping with blood that is warm, not red. Dried it looks a heavy brown, stiff as lead. Imagine the ricochet of a drunken fist that snuggles nicely between the nose and lips. Impact dribbling down the spine and slapping the hips. The barrels of my skull, those holes that whistle in the wind a sort of lubricated lisp that rests on tears. A sense of brutal butchery that batters the borders of belief, a false economy to pray that some how, some day and in some small way this tale will turn. Dismay, this is not pain. This is not the teething clamp of a hungry blade, the creasing curve through flesh and vein. This is my reality, or at least it was, why? because. The luck of the draw, the imploding exploding, digesting, regurgitating ying and yang of this universe - the gaunt keeper of humanity. Sanctimonious, a symbol of sellotape that binds me perversely to my past. Manipulative memories that need to be restrained, filed with all the crap. A thrill, a subversive all too serious sensational sense of seniority, capped with stark stupidity. An intoxicated journey that reached an end. Your choices scarred me; let's not pretend.