Dead Kennedys – I Kill Children
This repellent, yogurt soiled, boy. He wore lengthy vests and nothing more, pissed in boots and drowned puppies. He wore a patch, too, had a crooked eye and hit women.
Once (“often” may be closer to the aged-truth), I urinated in my father’s Wellington boots, or “wellies”. This action must’ve secured itself in retaliation for advances made upon my mother. I assume this to be true. Even a stolen kiss goodbye before work would’ve ensured I pissed in your boots, Father. I was to be the only man in my mother’s life. You become protective about those who carry you, you see. I understand cats slightly better now; corrupt traps though they sorely are.
The idea and its calculation, the execution and the aim; and aim is crucial. The one too many juice cartons downed in preparation. Hard not to be proud of a corrupt child. The boy punched women, too. Those related by marriage that got just a tad too close. I have never endeared a stranger to my fine self by pinching the flesh of their flushed cheeks – not outside the impassioned, at least. I expect the same in return. Space, please or so arrives the lesser documented baby-fist. Imagine a hard grape flung at you. Ask my Aunt. She knows.
There’s also a story – none of them mine – about a near-drowning of a litter of pups, or maybe just one or two. Can you be angry at a child whose years are shadowed by the numbers of fingers on a single hand? The idea of forgiving a child is spoiled with farce. I was with my cousin on the day. Not sure if the let’s-see-can-they-swim idea was mine or hers. Still, that the story is known I find her guilty. She’ll marry soon. Might be best not to lead with such a story on the day.
He was a scallywag, a rascal, and, at times, a pup-hunter. These are their memories, not mine, although I tell of them as a protector would. The outcome – the harvest – of those young and troublesome would do well to birth soon.
He smears them with surface damage, before they dare expose him. “That’ll shut them up,” he’d say. A tormentor in the guise of those tormented. What a shameless prick. Thankfully not incorrigible.
[Buy some Fresh Fruit…]
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