Hatched dens in moss, birch trees uprooted, willow white ink caps assumed as magic. The woodlands and the moors, a joined a council estate 'Racecourse' a 60-year-old experiment - Where I used to play as a kid. Flayed open fly skipped boxes of porn my first sexual experience ... Beer cans, bottles for smashing - woodlice, spiders, climbing trees - used syringes - condoms, ripped tights webbing a disjointed fugue yet unknown. Butterflies. Birds. I play the predator alone, eight, making ladybird graveyards with rose thorns - sadistic games processed slowly. Vacant. It will go up in flames, absent-mindedly scratching a match. The purification process was viewed with interest.Once two men appeared from nowhere black balaclavas sawed off shotguns. A moment's stare,.scotum-tighting fear ... The black soil breaths. Overcast sky. The woods turns to green and grey.
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