Text: Foetus

My dad made me get the thing to beat me.
Dad was discipline, judge and sentencer.
My mum called us her pit bulls, there were nine of us, she was tired by the time she had me.

Encased in the representation of a prison cell,
(actual size 10’x 6’) A man lies, foetus like,

A tree stirs.The sound of falling leaves.
The distant sound of men shouting and calling to each other, echoes and re-echoes.
Keys turn in locks, someone moans.
Rustling leaves begin to turn into whispers. Chinese whispers.
Lights like thunderbolts, angel light, whiz around the room.
The whispers continue.
It’s time.

The man Boychild stirs.
I want to see the world through baby blue eyes, not eyes made blind, bloodied by another mans shank.
I want to feel the world with a sweet, sweet, sweetcorn touch.
Not find myself anaesthetised by drink, numbed by alcohol.
A bottle smashes on my head.
I am afraid I will not understand the world
I long to be…